“Moon” by Eithne Lannon


Take the river’s curl, the ocean’s wave,
the never ending trees, the sway of a meadow,
the roll of the sun, the scattered stepping stars,
and take last month’s silver bud of moon
now come full to the sky, her mouth is wide and open,
white lips brimming with a soft wet light,
month by month, she gives her widening
emptiness to the earth, holds the planet in her orbit,
washes ocean after ocean over sand;
I stretch out my arms and reach for her,
hold hands with her rhythm, climb into her open
wound, my blood is lapping at her perpetual pull,
I sleep in the mantle of her tidal pulse, slip
the ring of her light onto my finger. At the last hour
of fullness, I wade inside her alluvial silt,
feel desire awash in my gut. Lost inside
her wholeness, carved into her darkening spine,
I am swallowed into goddess light.


Eithne Lannon

Eithne Lannon is a poet and native of Dublin. In her writing she embraces the natural world as a means to explore the human condition. Online in Ireland, the UK, US and Canada, she’s had work published with Headstuff, Bare Hands, Sheila-na-Gig and Artis Natura. She’s also been included in publications such as The Ogham Stone, Boyne Berries, Skylight 47 and FLARE.

Featured image by Anders Jildén

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