If we had more moons,

months would fracture into innumerable shards

and broken Junes would rhyme with multiplication;

December's segments would twitch and sparkle

along the arched spine of winter.

Tides would become tentative

and wait for more gregarious skies

to swell like the noise of a crowded party

after the rumor spreads.

Anyone can fill a myriad of jiggers with mercury,

center another moon in each mirrored meniscus,

swirl or jiggle the silvery apparitions,

and watch them ripple and divide.

The largest planet, with a red heart that bleeds,

has a month of moons orbiting like butterflies

whose bright wings slowly open or close

and good-natured women who never know

when their next period is due, its time and tide

unpredictable as the next flickering moonrise.