You are Moanna, with the moon on your shoulder.
Find the fig tree and the giant toad beneath,
feed him magic stones to make him vomit up the key.
While the mandrake swoons in milk and blood,
the child-eater waits at his banquet of death,
his eyeballs put out, straining to hear precious hunger,
the small, crisp pop of a grape on the tongue,
imperceptible kiss of saliva. Pale Man folds his eyes
in the sockets of his hands and tries to claim his due.
Find the baby, carry him into the labyrinth, Moanna,
just a few drops from the bright glim of his veins,
and the moon on your shoulder will never wane.
Lesley Quayle is a poet, author and folk/blues singer currently living in the wilds of rural Dorset. Her latest collection – Sessions – is published by Indigo Dreams Press.