The worm moon will drink until she floats

if you let her. She’ll suck the dirt clots right out

of the dissipating snow and the runoff from the road,

guzzle sap from the bucket on her knees or take it

straight from the tree. Glutton-mouthed moon,

you’ve found her belly up in the ditch on one

of your night walks. A kernel of hominy, she swells

languidly, kicking her legs like the ticks you pluck

from the dog. Tonight she hangs high in the dark

as the doe goat kids, quietly fevering in the straw,

udder hard and white as the pail at your feet, then black

as a new moon. The hunger in the sky winks at you

unrelenting through the trees as you do the deed,

as you wash the blood from your palms. Each year

she wakes this way, and each year you feed her

ravenous. She never gets full, but then again

neither do you, anymore.