Every fourth week, the floodgates unbuckle
and part the sea. Blood eddies in a river dance
and I find myself suddenly wildened,
fifty milliliters rising to the moon’s pull.
I sorrow fully, releasing my soul
to the dappled pelt of the night sky.
I am not with the waves, but I want to be.
In the distance I hear the men howl,
snouts to the heavens. Wolves return
when they scent the red-hooded girl
who lays poppies in her foamy wake,
crowding the coastline with her heat.
Here, in the brine-dark of twilight,
I can smell the tides. A flush of salt
bulges to the surface. I feel waterlogged.
I want to touch the fish that dive like ribbons
through the ocean, silver-streaked, with the reddening
reflection of the blood moon and her ichor harvest.
Mishal Imaan Syed is a third-year at UCLA studying English, creative writing, and cognitive science. She is the recipient of the May Merrill
Miller award for poetry and the Clara Rusk Hastings scholarship for English. Her work has appeared in Westwind, Open Ceilings, Raven’s Perch, and Solstice Literary Magazine. In her free time, she fluffs her hair, daydreams, and plays classical piano.
