The moon doesn’t want to be photographed.
Can’t be photographed because her beauty
cannot be captured by man-made machines.
She must be captured by naked hands,
her likeness attempted with gentle chalk,
brazen charcoal, soft watercolors.
Her craters are invitations, doe-like
and admiring each and every one of us from afar.
We become voyeurs together.
Each month she performs a slow
strip-tease for us, mystifying us with
the spectacle of her fullness before she steals away.
She is overshadowed by the sun
because the sun is a jealous bitch.
But our modest queen with her waning and waxing stirs our imaginations like an elixir,
and her milky halo lights the way.
Christian Heigler is a lifelong Philadelphian. He is currently pursuing his MFA at Arcadia University. He is preoccupied with spaces where his Black and queer identities meet, but is a student of all forms. In his spare time he likes to cook, play video games badly, and spoil his fur son, Montgomery.
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