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it was winter when he told
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me, when the moon was big
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and clear over the swamp,
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that he hated full moons.
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it surprised me: who doesn’t
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like full moons? i asked
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and his eyes flashed
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like headlights in the dusk.
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me, he mouthed, as if his voice
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had dripped away. the shadows
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give mystique. it’s beautiful:
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i heard this clawing
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up his throat, yearning to fly
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free. i wouldn’t understand it, not
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‘til morning, when quickly did i see
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the constellation of zits
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upon his face, and orion
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winking at me.
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