Smell of the Hunter Moon
by Joan Leotta
Is there a word for the scent of the moon,
like petrichor for the scent of rain?
Astronauts record it as odor of cordite or ash
after a campfire’s extinguished.
Yesterday, I stepped onto porch
to admire Hunter’s Moon
in all her glory. Night’s air was redolent
with those same smells.
Perhaps hunting season opened?
Perhaps my neighbor doused his fireplace?
Or is moon landscape peopled with
hunters, fire builders who hid when
Apollo Lunar Module Eagle
swooped down toward them?
Shy, they hid until men and Eagle headed home.
Are they now recounting tales
of that day, and of the smell of rocket fuel?
After all, when moon is large and closer,
her light strong and full, odors
of ash and cordite slide down on moonbeams
as surely as dust motes ride on sunlight.
Now, sight and smell link moon and me.
I wait to learn her sounds, to let her grains
run through my hand and taste her essence.
I hope she tastes like cheddar.
* * * * *
Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer whose stories and poems have been widely enjoyed on page and stage. When she is not at the computer or performing, she can be found watching the moon or gathering seashells at the beach. Her first chapbook, Languid Lusciousness with Lemon, is out from Finishing Line Press.