Timimoun Moon
A poem from the ancient heart of Algeria
The moon was full in Scorpio, and a room of women drummed; swinging, swaying, praying a maiden’s name into a blessing, while a crones’s pounding palm swung it forward piercing my heart. I watched it limp towards my throat as my lips parted; parched for a rain that might never come. And when the women finally chanted my name I folded, back into the Earth and remembered that her heart is dry and red and ancient like this desert; and look at it beat, and look at it drum.
