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anorexic's lament
my lover crushed the budding fruit in me
which ran from out my legs like currant wine –
that sweet unwelcome blood of atrophy
sat red upon her tongue as muscadine.
her cup full up she turns her gaze to flesh
to take from me her pound, then two, then five;
to rake thin fingers cross the scalp and thresh
my hair, like wheat, to pay some holy tithe
and clutch me like a candle through the night.
at morning light she pinches out the wick:
she spends me, bends me down as acolyte
to altars where her ash has settled thick
    in lungs and throat and shallow-thrumming heart,
    where all my lover’s love rends me apart.
:iconmoondrums:moondrums 90 22
old flames die hard
oh jack be nimble
take care as you strike
your match in me,
these hips all
tallow, this spine all
wick – jack
be quick
i am burned and
i am wasted, my body
worth most
in its wasting
you flickered in me
two weeks more before
that spark blew out
on the south wind,
red and dim –
virgin again
:iconmoondrums:moondrums 23 3
your body is jerusalem,
he’ll tell you
coveted first, then plundered.
– you’re my backwater bedroom
martyr, he’ll tell you
as he nails your wrists
to bedposts,
seizes your tongue like
a white flag,
pulls stones from your parapets –
little sister,
i’ll tell you
the children’s crusade
is lost:
and you’ll kneel at his sword and know
you were always his
to take
:iconmoondrums:moondrums 125 39
he works rhythmically
over the still girl on the table.
the surgeon’s incisions are steady,
as scalpel hews flesh from hip to hip
and near-tender, his hands and wrists
were it not for all the blood –
she wakes in fluorescence from
to the flutter of a phantom limb,
some precious unnamed thing
shorn from her
and discarded.
the amputation is final.
she often counts backwards
from ten, awaiting anesthesia
that does not come.
:iconmoondrums:moondrums 76 12
an atheist's prayer
dear god,
i planted no tulips in autumn
and no tulips came in spring.
how silly of me, then
to mourn the empty garden,
to long for fields of amsterdam,
to kneel at night in cold dirt,
hands folded.
i’ve learned there is
a certain ache in lacking
a thing never had, that small itch
whose relief is two seasons past –
so god, if you can hear me,
know that i am homesick
for amsterdam,
whose name, like yours, i know
but whose flowers i cannot see.
:iconmoondrums:moondrums 268 135
nana gave birth at eighteen
and caught cancer at forty-eight,
some summer-worn sunspot
spreading from skin,
first to take her breasts,
then to shake her bones.
forgive me, nana
for what i’ve done:
i will not give birth
at eighteen.
my rite has passed,
this sapling carcinoma
budding in my belly
to be excised from within,
to halt the swell, the warp
of skin and breasts
and bones, the intimate perversion
of flesh.
forgive me, nana
for the blood and the bruising,
for these new-empty hips, for
the air thick with lysol
and grief –
i have done as you did once
at forty-eight,
though melanoma never
had a heartbeat
nor stirred in the stomach
at dawn.
:iconmoondrums:moondrums 36 14
his voice in the dark
something holy, holding
me to him, my coliseum
(did you see them,
the pillars steady like hands
beneath me, wreathed
with laurels?)

i didn't see it, baby, but
i felt it:
his heartbeat the drum
for the phalanx, the failing
of words as he moves over me
in parallax, in pax romana,
the exorcism of the holy ghost
within us, will us
from our knees --
i didn't see it, baby, but
i felt it:
the rise and fall of his chest
like empires
:iconmoondrums:moondrums 20 5
on waking alone in the night
it is four in the morning.
with my eyes closed i could be a child
tonguing the space left
by a missing tooth, probing,
picking at
some loss - the slow, nagging drip
of that open wound.
in this dark i can't see
my palm as it rises there
like a specter, the unfurling
of the hand like lips, the spaces
between fingers as they search again
and again
for some missing thing. these are
the real wounds.
i am not a child
anymore: there are worse things
to have lost
than teeth.
:iconmoondrums:moondrums 42 23
before he led me like a lamb
to the altar,
he got me drunk.
take this and eat, he said,
hands on my hipbones,
soft thighs, soft sigh
for this is my body -
but he gave me no bread, only
bruises, and he gave me
new thorns for my head
and i bled
till sunday morning.
tell me:
who speaks of resurrection?
are you there,
mary magdalene?
mary, when
will easter come?
:iconmoondrums:moondrums 60 25
a lot like christmas by moondrums a lot like christmas :iconmoondrums:moondrums 31 0 and in that sound of sighing, by moondrums and in that sound of sighing, :iconmoondrums:moondrums 24 23 enough by moondrums enough :iconmoondrums:moondrums 16 22
i don’t want
a second cup of coffee, but
i accept it anyway
because he offers.
(he’s got dirt in the white
of his fingernails and
i wonder, dimly, where
his hands have been,
where he keeps
them when they
are not
in mine, or
if it even matters)
i ask him how
can you stand to take
your coffee black?

(he’s put one creamer and
two sugars in mine,
just the way i’ve always
liked it. he doesn’t know
i use splenda now instead.
i didn't bother to tell him.)
he is quiet for
a moment. then:
the trick, he says, is not caring
how bitter it tastes

so i pour myself
a third cup.
:iconmoondrums:moondrums 37 17
long gone ii. by moondrums long gone ii. :iconmoondrums:moondrums 25 16 clementine by moondrums clementine :iconmoondrums:moondrums 13 1 michicant by moondrums michicant :iconmoondrums:moondrums 10 0


tWR Best Of!
What is the Best of Feature?
We want to celebrate our writers for their creativity and craft, and give props to the people that take their time to give great critique. Each week we will be featuring an amazing literature deviation and a fantastic comment. 
This Week's Features
Best of Literature
by :iconmoondrums:

Best of Comments
 From :iconSykCyn: a comment on to love and be loved. by :icon91816119:
Want to get in on this?
If you see a terrific comment or know of an awesome literature deviation that deserves a spotlight, feel free to comment on the journal or note one of our
:iconzara-arletis:Zara-Arletis 3 3
Daily Lit Recognition for March 29th, 2016
Daily Literature Recognition for March 29th, 2016
Featured Author of the Day
Suggested by: Medoriko
Our featured author of the day is: moondrums :la:
moondrums likes to partake in both photography and poetry. While I was immediately in love with her talents, her poetry blew me away the most. Her words are both clever and honest. 

A powerful piece that hurts after you read it, but you are too amazed to stop.
She manages to not be melodramatic in her use of biblical imagery--
it only aids in this masterpiece. 

The first stanza shakes me.
Simply breathtaking. 

There is more to this poem than meets the eye, and it
leaves you wanting to know more after you've read it. 
If you'd like to see more by moondrums 
please check out her gallery :love: 
:icondailylitrecognition:DailyLitRecognition 3 4
Illusion by MonikaOsipowska Illusion :iconmonikaosipowska:MonikaOsipowska 51 6 deep blue by radicszoltan deep blue :iconradicszoltan:radicszoltan 221 21 Aneta by MonikaOsipowska Aneta :iconmonikaosipowska:MonikaOsipowska 50 1 red scarf by tsapolka red scarf :icontsapolka:tsapolka 1 0 Crave you by SaraLinn Crave you :iconsaralinn:SaraLinn 26 1
i thought i had grief down to an art: 
throw the ashes to the wind, 
catch them in your mouth,
and move on
but i can't work through this
as if it were a checklist
loss is not linear,
a recipe reading:
simmer in sorrow, sadness, anger
until it is reduced by half,
a glaze of grief 
at the bottom of the pan
my doctor can keep
his Kubler-Ross model,
give her five stages
another five years
because i am not finished
tearing at my shirt,
painting mascara Roschorch
on my pillowcase,
letting my blood
of the oxygen we both breathed
i hear the respirators
when the rest of the house is asleep
your funeral flowers still
hang in the rafters of the attic,
raining down on me in the summer heat
i stare at pictures of you 
as old as i am now, to try and
remember your living face  
the cadence of the songs you sung
the line of freckles beach sun left 
on the underside of your tired eyes
this life is punctuated
by two days alone:
the day your heart began beating
:iconalloendreams:AlloenDreams 105 36
making peace with toothaches.
there has been a poem stuck between my molars
from the night before I decided the hands of my wrist-watch
needed someone better to wait for. there wasn't one metaphor
for time I missed with us and I know you asked the half
a century worth of summer alcohol in your veins this
more times than I did;
"you don't get to hurt over dumping a year of alienation
in one fight he never saw coming," but you see, now
the backs of my hands don't hurt with morning sickness.
I don't fake spasms in my nerve endings louder
than my mind's own dark places; I have learned to say no
after swallowing that I had to deny you so many things
you asked for well before you earned right to them. for starters,
i. you did not earn the glorious, then-private hourglass
of my body. you begged with the reserved desperate
in your sly grin and showed off the glisten of my virgin skin
on deceiving pixels.  
in your virtual hands, my body felt limp-- a bottom-heavy
chalice of airless vessels.
ii. you did not earn the lo
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 30 13
Daily Lit Recognition for March 13th 2015
Daily Lit Recognition for March 13th, 2015
We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Recognition!
You can show your support by :+favlove:ing this News Article. 
Please comment and :+fav: the features and congratulate the artists!
Featured By: AyeAye12

on waking alone in the night by moondrums
A beautiful, nostalgic and observational piece.
Suggested by: comatose-comet 
Featured by: chromeantennae 

i want by anobrain
Suggester says: I think this poem captures exactly what it's like to have an empty word document in front of you and turns that blank space into a beautiful, well-formed work.
:icondailylitrecognition:DailyLitRecognition 15 9
Heroes by nattrozanskaactors by saltwaterlungsFrom The Heart by Honestly-NotWished by Honestly-NotHeat by Honestly-Notthese bitter kids have sharper hips by counting-vertebraeimmortal by drowning-poppieswhat love is not. by amour-raven419 by daybreaksmilesThe Wind by mel-faceObserver II by mel-faceObserver I by mel-faceskin by skepticaI42 by Khaiminhypergraphia by consolecadetif only you knew how to swim by notCindyChenStudying by notCindyChenrain me a river by calliopenapostasy by moondrumsi was the infidel by moondrumson a shadow swallowed by the sea by peaseblossoms
:iconskullhips:skullhips 19 43
where is my mind? by darknyess where is my mind? :icondarknyess:darknyess 1 0
Slow Recovery
I don't know what I did, but I somehow managed to hurt my back earlier this week - my shoulder blade area was hurting like a bitch on Tuesday and I'm only just now getting back to normal. I had luckily recently borrowed a heating pad from my mom, and it was the only thing getting me through that day. The rest of the week has been a dull, lingering ache that just won't go. I think it's gone now, as I'm typing this, but I'm keeping the heat on for the time being.
I can only think of two things that might have caused it; one is that I got a new laptop bag with my new laptop. It's possible that I may have thrown something out by switching it up. The only other thing I can think of is that something is up with my sleeping position. The reason I had the heat pad in the first place was because of some pain in my neck, which leads me to believe I'm sleeping in a strange position. I keep  lot of pillows and I've been trying to switch them up, but I can
:iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 4 14
Aboriginal from Australia by vincepontarelli Aboriginal from Australia :iconvincepontarelli:vincepontarelli 1 0


my lover crushed the budding fruit in me
which ran from out my legs like currant wine –
that sweet unwelcome blood of atrophy
sat red upon her tongue as muscadine.
her cup full up she turns her gaze to flesh
to take from me her pound, then two, then five;
to rake thin fingers cross the scalp and thresh
my hair, like wheat, to pay some holy tithe
and clutch me like a candle through the night.
at morning light she pinches out the wick:
she spends me, bends me down as acolyte
to altars where her ash has settled thick
    in lungs and throat and shallow-thrumming heart,
    where all my lover’s love rends me apart.
anorexic's lament
 i usually write exclusively in free verse, so this was a huge departure from my normal style

review for #thewrittenrevolution[link]

 1. is the sonnet form effective and accurately employed? 
2. if the title didn't guide your expectations about the subject matter, would you have thought at this piece is about anorexia? if not, what did you feel the poem could be about? 
3. is the imagery effective for the subject matter?


moondrums's Profile Picture
Artist | Student | Photography
United States
what's the matter with you lately
dream come true. thanks so much, everyone! :heart:


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ElementalEmily Featured By Owner Nov 29, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Whatever will be will be. The future's not ours to see.
classic-poet Featured By Owner May 23, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Hello there! We're delighted that you're now a member of MacroPoetry! :happybounce: As part of your welcome tour, here's a link to the group's basic rules. :slow: Next, we have the poetry folder if you would like to submit some poetry. :eager: That brings the welcome tour to an end :saddummy: but we'll be eagerly waiting to see more of your work soon! :love:
Synmor Featured By Owner May 21, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Your gallery is inspirational. Beautiful work.
Th3Chos3nOn3 Featured By Owner Feb 2, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
I miss you momo. :heart:
skullhips Featured By Owner Dec 8, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the llama! ^-^
darknyess Featured By Owner Dec 23, 2013   General Artist
moondrums Featured By Owner Dec 26, 2013  Student Photographer
DSSiege11 Featured By Owner Nov 14, 2013  Professional Digital Artist
Thank you so much for the watch, beautiful girl :tighthug:
moondrums Featured By Owner Nov 15, 2013  Student Photographer
you're very welcome :heart: 
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