Poetry By Robin Throne : Dark of the Moon

Dark of the Moon

There are the women who do not nor cannot 
conform to the necessities of aging.
The luxurious salves, balms, tinctures, and oils, so many picks, 
will never drench the crone’s dryland; yet,
she soaks in all the extravagance as if to allay the arid landscape, 
the inevitable funerary where she is now meant to thrive. 
There are women who do not nor cannot 
conform to the perceived losses of their former moon cycle. 
She combs the apothecary’s shelves to seek restoration, 
the mislaid 28-day culmination previously dreaded for a lifetime.
As if the loss of a dear old friend, aghast the feared menses was taken away.
So desperate her grief, she cannot see a new moon, unable to absorb the darkest light. 
At the fullest moon, she again curses on for most of her later years, 
such sudden loss blinds her from the dark light of a most glorious era. 
Let me hear you now, nous of the heart-mind 
speak to her loudly as a dual-Ana, even gaudier than the shouts of youth, 
the din of deceits purported by posh jars, nips and tucks by kinsmen 
same-old centuries of lies to spend her wealth in the dark time—
dissuade her from Luna’s true quest of her finest years. 
Sometimes apotheosis discovers her wandering the beauty aisle 
or anxious in the treatment room, fumbling through glossy creaseless imageries, 
and sends in the night hag to uplift her mourning, higher than a hawthorn tree,
to dance in the hysteria gifted only by Hecate, Diana, Annis, Elli, and Cerridwen.
Somehow in her sorrow, she replaces heartache with fearless frenzy of the moon’s darkest light. 
Yes, there are such brave women who embrace the spagyrics, the flaws,  
those who dare to call down a new moon, dive into a night sea, 
and revel in the deep mysteries of her despised barren time.