We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
As women continue to fight for their rightful freedom and honor, they will endlessly endure the witch-hunting, and the slow, dragging process of social change. 
 The reference to “blacks”  contrasts with the earlier “white”.  The black colour might represent sadness and mourning, or even witch’s clothing— a reference to the historical practice of men in power accusing women of witchcraft.
Edge