If we had more moons,
months would fracture into innumerable shards
and broken Junes would rhyme with multiplication;
December¹s 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 series of jiggers with liquid,
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 twenty-eight 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.