The Woman in the Moon

hides her face for shame. She's retreating beneath an ominous veil. Out on cross campus, a crowd formed wondering what the murky hand grasping the moon was. Staring up they paused, struck by a primeval dread of darkness. The enlightened astronomy majors were analyzing and explaining away ancient fear through telescopes and principles. I took off my baby blue Yankees hat to look in the eyepiece and see the sphere of the moon held in a tube. Each crater on her face precisely focused. I watched the murky shadow start to shroud her cool face. Boston's winning 3-0. The moist star upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands is sick almost to Doomsday with eclipse. Her hue turns red, as stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, while flame throwers blithely practice trading burning torches for Halloween's fire breathing show. Fire was tossed about at the debate I'd been to of Charlie vs. Seyla, Hill hopefull and Benhabib philosophical on Iraq. On the Middle East, they agreed the system of states to be disjoint and out of frame and little else. She emphasized war as a blunt instrument to use to compose change in the region. He argued we went with international law on our side and more U.N. resolutions than we needed. His closing line was that Muslim communities wanted, waited for us to come in and bring them democracy. The jaw of the room dropped, hair stood on end, and eyes popped out, like stars started from their spheres. Cosmic spheres are lined up, and my stars are going to gaze at the moon.