October – Blood Moon M.I.L.F and OTHER POEMS - Mutha Magazine


Published on April 19th, 2017 | by Charlotte O'Brien



October – Blood Moon

For My Daughter, Who is about to Turn Thirteen


Ten years ago you were fat and happy,

dumb as a puppy. All strawberry short-cake,

all ladybug and roly-poly, dandelions and marigolds,

you wore tiaras to the grocery store

and brought your wand with you to breakfast.


Sweet thing, my hot-blood filly,

this is our season, as it turns

we exchange vows –

you rise and clamor at its gate

you begin to wear yourself –

your chestnut mane, a glossy new coat.

You are hungry for everything, clumsy with unnamed

longing.                                   Stand there,

quenchless in the half-light,

drink milk from the carton,      I know,

no amount of coolness, can cool you.


You are a cornucopia

filled with the sweet blood of beets,

burgeoning pomegranate seeds, pear-blossomed,

the un-bit apple, bright poppy, you brim and ooze –

almost ripe.                              But hold

the blood in your mouth.         First, taste it.



I turn my face towards winter,

bruised by love, I’d give you all of it.


The wind comes, and I bear it. It winnows

through me.                 I am chaff,

I am burnished gold, cider-pressed –

reaped and brittle,                    a field of stubble.


I catch us in this exchange, its transference –

a pendulum.

a thing,                                    as simple as breath.

You glean from me, and turn, blistering,

readying yourself to fall.




There is nothing about the packet

of toilet paper beneath my arm,

or the baby wipes, or the small child

begging me for chocolate at the checkout

which makes me think

you should want me.


There is nothing about

the box of animal crackers on the table,

or sandwiches with the crusts cut off,

which allows me to see myself

as the object of your desire.


Fuck me in my dressing gown

pulled up around my waist,

your hands holding on

to these childbearing hips,

your head pressed

between my thighs


and I will fuck you

in your navy sweaters

and your button down shirts.

Talk politics to me.

Talk semiotics like you mean it.

I will suck on your providence

as if you are paying me for it.


Come at midnight

I’ll open the door in my mom jeans.

Come in the quiet hours between

Tonka trucks and bedtime stories.

Come in through the window

because I like it that way, with the schoolbags packed

and the kids sleeping soundly.

Come in the moonlight after you’ve tiptoed

across my Lego-ed floor

and I will submit myself fully—

wholly                 grateful

to be reminded

who I am            really

what I want.

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About the Author

Charlotte O’Brien is a San Francisco Bay Area writer with essays and interviews most recently published in The Rumpus, Mutha Magazine, and The Manifest-Station. She graduated from Pacific University’s MFA program in 2013. Charlotte lives with her teenager, her five year old, and a scruffy dog. She is currently writing a memoir about living in America as an undocumented immigrant. You can find out more about her at www.charlotteobrien.org.

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