Full moon tonight. Careful. Close your drapes. Fondle
your silverware. Resist the urge to howl

and rampage. The day, still bright but lonely, fools
no one. I know all

about hunger, about want, about cycles—

so many turns of leaves then snow, mud then green
then flower—but the moon, with its craters and glow,
why does it pull you?

The myths, the lore, the fairytales

(of hairy beasts dressing as grandmas of little girls
in devilish red cloaks) fingertip on true,
hint at what is real.

But here’s what’s real: you’re no wolf. Moonlight
on lichen, it varies. Shadows slink on trunks
behind you as you make your way towards me
to meet in secret.

My secrets? Scenes alive only in daytime:
my waking laugh at 8AM, chats at noon
with neighbors over tea, tooth-picked olives
stolen from grocers,

swooped hairstyles, and rain setting the stage
for late-day sun. All this you miss, these fully lighted
affairs. All that’s open, public, known
before any hint of moon. 

Michelle Menting has published poetry and nonfiction in Crab Creek Review, The MacGuffin, Bellingham Review, and Superstition Review, among other journals. She is the author of The Myth of Solitude (Imaginary Friend Press).