A Worm Moon In December 2025
Welcome to A Worm Moon, a poetry newsletter where I, Phoenix Yemi, share what I've been reading and writing through the month.
It's a new year, and hunger is a phantom limb.
“I buzz. I’ve been at myself,
fingers pruned and smelling
of lemon, of sweet moss,
late twilight and banked ember.
I stoke my own tinder, make fire
of what’s left. Don’t call it dream
but prophecy.”
from "Desire Path: Near Equinox"
by Donika Kelly
I buzz. I write. I pull at a little black hair on my chin that won't budge. I cry, and let the memory of Boxing Day come forward: Jessie Buckley as Agnes, Anne, Hamnet, Shakespeare. The image of a wild orange fox in a green forest, labouring, wailing; birth. And what surfaces is that things are made and unmade in the darkness of winter.
And a bell strikes the longing. Beneath the instant of sound, there's a low, unceasing hum burrowing behind my ribs. My body becoming a threshold. The world narrowing towards sensation, towards survival. I've been at myself. I'm at odds with myself. I endure and hold steadfast to faith that attention, repetition, and devotion make a future.
I'm learning that grief is not something to be solved but something that changes shape. That the slow work of desire is an education in living inside your body and not fantasy. These are grounding acts, and Donika Kelly reminds me that what survives is not the dream but the tending.
So, as I step into this year, I want to move towards self-acceptance and belief in myself as practice, not arrival. I trust that what lies ahead of me, ahead of us, is worthy. I believe that our dreams are not dreams, but prophecy.
Thank you for being on this journey with me. I hope that this new year is kind, tender, and loving to us all.
1
The full Donika Kelly poem from above. It feels like a touchstone. I return to it and find patience.
2
In The Mouth Of December: This House Of Grief
I wrote this poem thinking about how grief lives in the body, how it asks us to kneel, to repeat ourselves, to surrender. It moves between earth and prayer, chance and inheritance, loss, and the small, stubborn beauty of being alive. From this place, the poem grew into '12 Acts of Shelter: A Year of Houses', a year-long monthly performance series that carries these questions into shared space through object, text, and sound. Act I takes place on Friday 23 January. I’m curious to see how this project will unfold over time, nervous, a little afraid, but excited, and I hope to see you there.
3
Three poems by Sonia Sanchez. January feels like the opening of Fragment 2, like I am reciting the rain. The haikus are fleeting moments of love and sorrow, and in Father and Daughter (I), I must sit with my grief.
4
This poem gathers what survives: moss, memory, animal breath, love spoken against silence. It moves through failing and persisting, falling and rising, and through it all, I'm asking you, the reader, to stay.
5
"Instead of saying, I want you, I say, there is meaning between us." In Megan Fernandes' poem, there is intimacy without consumption. I like that it's meaning, not appetite, that shapes how we care and endure.
6
A very special moment in my life. An interview with the beautiful poet, musician, and community organiser aja monet in the new Worms Issue #11 on Faith & Worship. I'm really grateful to Worms and to how things fall into place. It was necessary.
In our conversation, we moved through the currents of faith, form, and the ways tenderness sustains us amid struggle. What follows is an excerpt from that dialogue.
What poems are you reading? Please share them with me, I’m compiling a document. You can email me by clicking on the button below (at phoenixyemi@gmail.com) or you can find me on Instagram @phoenixyemoja
💌 With Love, Phoenix 💌
