If I Had Children

If I had children, I might name 
them astrometeorological names: 
Meridian, a girl. Zenith, a boy. 
Eclipse, a pretty name for either one. 
Anaximander, ancient Greek scientist 
(who built a gnomon on Lacedaemon, 
and with it predicted the exact date 

that city would be destroyed by 
earthquake). . . . Anaximander, wonderful 
name for a girl. Anny could be her 
nickname. Ion, short for ionosphere, 
would make a graceful name for 
a boy. Twins could be named after 
planets: Venus and Mercury, or 

Neptune and Mars. They’d adore each 
other’s heavenly bodies shining 
upon their doubles on Earth. 
And have you ever thought that, of 
the Nine, only one planet is female? 
Venus. Unless Earth is. So, seven 
of Sun’s children, it seems, are male. 

But, if I had children, and grandchild-
ren, then greatgrandchildren, myriads
of newborn moons and moonlets crowding
into the viewfinder would furnish me
names both handsome and sweet:
Phoebe, Rhea, Dione among daughters
of Saturn, with Titan and Janus the 

brothers. Io, Ganymede and Callisto,
Jupiter’s boys: Europa and little
Amalthea, their sisters. 
On Io, most exotic of the Galilean
moons, are mapped six great-and-grand
volcanoes: Loki, Hemo, Horus, Daedalus,
Tarsis, Ra. Beauties all! But all 

boys. Well, if I had children 
I wouldn’t fix genders or orbits, only
names for them. Wobbling Phobus,
distant child of Mars, misshapen as
a frozen potato. . . . If I had such a
lopsided moon, the name Phobus would
fit. And I’d love it just the same.