Time for Woman and Man

The man on the moon is out of his league, his steps are not quite as big as he thinks, spreading his reach, pointing his delicate gloved hand as if to name numbers—but no one is listening. Time told by the moon is a tale of silence and sorrow untold, yet heard in the echoing hollow of every womb, writ in the blood of menstruation in spite of the intrusion of starwands. Every month sees the rising tide of revolution in the feminine core of this world, and every month is it thwarted—this is the pain of being a woman—the burden of keeping time, carrying water, gently turning the conversation just so with ticking lunatics who don't deserve to save face, who pontificate about exploding the moon with nuclear bombs, gifting the soft light of mercy like a lullaby to the lids of children (age 1 or 101), retelling the light of her sum, off to the side and keeping his time and keeping his time