Under our ribs our hearts are bloody stars. —Joy Harjo Say you swallowed the moon like a wafer and all the luminosity and myth is in you, absorbed through membrane into blood. The moon in all its phases, burning through the body with a fullness and ache. In you, bile rises and falls pulled by new gravity; sickness and relief in equal draw. How this satellite rolls over your abdomen like miniature elbows and knees. The same intensity that a child brings in its daily recess along the womb's ridge. Say the moon moves into your spleen the sudden absence of light gnaws a hole that grows between lung and rib, like scaffolding torn away. Your heart becomes as lonely as the sky, begins to miss that dedicated orbit, translucent face, the dim arch of light. Then great sadness envelopes our world, every night anticipating those cold velvet depths.
—MEHope
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