Luna

looks like she is waning:
lowenergylike, she spills
the creamy orb into
the cappuccino but fails to
move it in the way that makes
a heart
out of what we desire.

She says the new ob/gyn she went
to see, he told her that perhaps she
should consider other options
for she might realistically be past
the point where being able to bear
a child
would be a viable thing.

The nozzle is hot, bothered, frothing
at the mouth hissing in a true temper
yet the consummate barista
seems nearly like a natural:
watch her turn to hush and quiet
the milk
swaddling the tiny arm in white.

She says – he was saying it
could be something to do with
my hormones not doing what
they are supposed to and that
they might even be insufficient
my ovaries
I mean – but what does man know?

I tell her, the real reason
is apparent to anyone less man
more woman drawn by the primal
pull of the moon and how she
is gently ever edging away from
our earth
by four centimetres each year.

Some night she’ll long for us no
longer our blood will halt its tidal
surge towards her hunger, see now
sea, waters rising past our hips
snuffing all breath from our lips
so speak
have him know that until then

– girl,
you are celestial, vital, luminous
you can bear
– just about –
any body.