With both hands I have crammed the moon into my throat, and vomited back its chalky milk. I have scrubbed this white bile from the walls, astronomical gristle, the ground bones of its ruined face. Diamond slag drips from my lips ravaged by canal-cracks and the scars of past mornings spent hunched over the floor, heaving the sky into the drain.
When I was born, the moon was in Virgo. Perhaps I was meant to be a nun, and blister my fingers with tallow, sew up my cunt with copper wire and scour the nipples from my breasts with a paste of consecrated nettles. Perhaps I was meant to be as blank and unpenetrated as a statue, no terrifying black crescent grinning in me to swallow men like wriggling fish. Perhaps I was meant to have a rosary of severed eyelids, blinking against my throat at vespers, and plant the dross of infant foreskins in the churchyard, to feed the slack jaws of dead sisters.
But I ate my vows on a silver plate, and the plate was bright as the moon. They lurch in me, swinging the weight of the body I was meant to make of this hot flesh, and when I open my mouth to sing the matins, they fly out in a rush, a rattle of lunar horrors. My body is a hammer, and with it I mutilate the holiest of lights.