The Moans of Woman

I called you, once, a throbbing funeral
And I was accurate, sorely accurate.
The way you pulse in my venus
with the color of over ripened strawberries
and tinges of red bruised vestiges,
you drop out of me
slowly,
then running-
sweetly,
then unabashedly-
soundlessly,
then,
without warning-
a moaning release of halfness,
of unborn,
and slippery relics
of what almost breathed.

I hear.
And cry into you.