The man in the moon sat down on my bed and started smoking a twisted cigarette between yellowing teeth and fingertips, while murmuring wild stories to the dark. Of men who prayed to find themselves, and turned into stags, into dogs, into owls. Of wandering salesmen who gave their hearts to the moon when no one else would take them. Of teenagers who fell in-love with themselves and danced starving under the sky. I don't know what to say but I offer him a whiskey and a place for his stories to rest. The glass trembles in his hands and there are crows in his mouth. He talks of how most men prefer the sun. Men who need to rise early. Men who carve the land into money. But moonlight is for beasts. Moonlight is for old dreams that are eating your bones with little roots, turning you into soil, into something horned, into something half-faced and silver, into something the sun can't burn and the world can't eat. Men who prefer the moon are flowers forced into rebirth each year. Of all the bodies buried behind my house, only one is me, and the moon helps me cover the hole, before we go back in and raise a glass.
Joel LeBlanc is a poet, pastry chef, medical herbalist and freelance writer. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals including Semaphore Magazine, Poetry NZ, and Takahe. Joel lives in New Zealand with his husband, 4 dogs and 2 cats – some of which may or may not have once been human.