New Moon Poem by Amber Toohey

I am far too rooted in this world,
concerned with each breath,
each detonation beat.

Plastic veins reach out like wild fig
and burrow for shrinking echoes,
plaiting truffles into religious bezoars.

Hip bones gild the fertile crescent,
guarding the temple womb
in rippling silence, beyond
fermenting greed and eggshell gestures.

Stale fingers press sins
into bread, flowing water murmuring
of the blessed.
I shall be sealed with honeyed apples and wine,
inscribed

while science propels me toward
the craters of the moon;
I exhale

and long for
majik.