The moon is fat and butter-yellow.
I use a silver knife to scrape it from the sky.
Moon on toast is delicious, the creamy
salted sphere of it melting over crumbs.
Once upon a time I ate the moon on toast
every morning, keeping it tied
to my cottage door by the sea.
I thought I’d never be hungry for anything
but moon. Now I only have it once
a month, when I swallow scrape after scrape
and tell everyone how good moon is
and how much I miss it. Later, it hardens
in my stomach like an egg.
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