ancient greeks believed the mOOn’s dark 
places were core-deep seas,
and they named them
marias. 

god fashioned eve 
of adam’s rib, 
but theia smashed into earth 
to make the mOOn,
two bodies creating 
new dust and stone. 

colored bone and neroli
and, rarely, blue,
the mOOn swings her mood 
as she moves through her phases,
waxing to waning,
new, quarter, half, full…
she pulls at the tide, 
that black brackish blanket,
her need for cover ever based on her
menses: 

the mOOn is a wOman.

there will be blood a couple
times a year
and harvest every five or so.
she’s locked in earth’s dance,
keeping time with her father; 
so she maintains the days of
wolf, strawberry, snow…
as a “good” wOman would,
she sustains 
life: 

the mOOn is a wOman.

she has no weather; 
she just remains, bravely
holding close those 
garish flags, those man-in-mOOn footprints,
gamely showing her scars 
to the blaze of the sun, 
steady in her shifts, 
always gifting us 
her cratered face. 

sure, her smile is 
simultaneously a scythe 
and her secrets lie
on the shadowed side, 
but still, she lets the light
of others shine.

gravity and orbit are mystical things, 
but this mystery brings us 
back to the fact:

the mOOn is a wOman.

the mOOn is a wOman.