By Krista Ford
She�s ripe and right
in the way she talks
in the way she walks
in the way she listens.
She�s learned to dance
from within.
The treasures
once stuck
inside her bones,
her joints and flesh,
now dot the skies
with her footsteps.
She�s waltzing now
a one, two, three
a down, up, up
of starry nights.
She sits on the moon
and hears with the ear
that hears the hearts
of woman, man and dog
then laughs out loud
from the gut.
Sometimes she cries.
Sometimes she howls
at the moon
and the sun.
She digs her claws
into the dirt,
her body, her flesh, the stars.
I saw her drip
little bits
of her sweet nectar
onto my kitchen floor.
I smell the remnants
of this crone
this dancing crone.
Look at the sky.
See the stars,
the space between them,
and the milky way?
Her syrupy steps
circles the moon.