New Moon

[Ca ne fait rien]

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.

I found this just so female, in the most primal sense. Transcending all the trappings and hypocrisies of the superfcail sort of religious stuff.
If I was to make any stylistic sort of suggestion or alteration,
maybe the poem might end at
'craters of the moon'.

I think you already have majik.