I pray to a god
called dynamism.
The moon, she keeps
my confessions—
though inconsistently
through the month—
along side the other
bodies. I
wonder if their
menstrual path
is painful or if,
like breathing,
they work to notice
the cycles. Perhaps
space moves
around them like
seasons, stars blooming
and fading,
tiny pinprick
maple leaves
in clusters, milky
trees.
All I know is that
everything changes
something it once
was, will
be again, and I
too am allowed
to have phases,
build up to finish
and fall
begin