Thus, coming of age, how could we be told
anything useful about aging by those
who abandoned their own youthful selves
in shame for having been there once,
without any insight. Coming of age,
for instance, we have but little knowledge
of the interdependence of
the astral bodies and those of our own.

The Moon cycles and the times of change
are not beyond comprehension; even though,
they require a level of awareness.
Certainly, such skills remain rare,
not only among the old, but also among
the well experienced. Yet, we expect
the young to rise
above our gross inability to live
in accordance with the lunar cycles.

Old customs make no mention
of our own species' basic stuff of life.
We make no preparations for
a none celebration
of the biggest event yet among
all of our powers —
a girl's first fertility cycle. There's
nothing but shame that comes crashing down
upon girls where there should be music
and an all-night dance, a feast for all,
and a showering of gifts, a long gown
that would make her proud, and
new shoes for the boys so as to help them
stand-up to the occasion.
Instead, there's the secrecy of silence
that surrounds the imminent arrival of yet
another lunar spell.
The ghosts of Gregorian monks
keep rising up
with plumes of steam
from a squeezed-out sponge
in a cold and darkened bedroom.

There has yet to be invented
the universal rhythm calendar set for each
human being, where their own gestation period
would be used as a standard of measurement;
each, consisting of the total number
of weeks of growth, from inception to birth.
One calendar-book per person,
both male and female,
with days of rest and reflection, being
reflective of the menstrual bleeding of women
at the beginning of each cycle,
followed half way through
by an egg released for each
brand new project. Six billion rhythm
calendars envisioned
for a present-day planet.
A flood of blood matched only
by a flood of Moon calendar publishing
from Katmandu all the way to Lublin.

But, I have heard you say, my friend,
you are not aware of such a subtle change
taking place. Such as, when
your own breasts become misty soft,
each month, regularly, like
the waning Moon, or quiet and carefree,
at a cusp of a new phase,
as only you can be,
when you're not fertile.
Such were the rhythmic ways
of life experienced by your gender; yet,
never appraised in public
since the times of
our own forbearers.

I guess, deep down,
we don't really like each other
that much, mothers and the mothers
of mothers to be. The old who care
not about the self-knowledge of
the young; but, about the hymens being thorned
with or without the shiny proof of purchase,
like the silly dreams
of their own innocence lost,
once and for all.

Copyright © by the author

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