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Could you impregnate a ghost?

The moon wrenches itself again
from the land, cold as wind
upon a grave, pristine
in the symmetry of splotches
that scar a once ancient Goddess,
and howls with a silent appeal

I am hungry for her blood
curdled to ambrosiac dust
and for her name to be recited
upon cracked lips wanting
for nourishment greater
than any crescent roll could give

The moon rising, apparitional essence,
affords me the hunger to live,
the lust of resurrection Mary
is insidious in it's sorrow
and intoxicating in it's fear