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.
Listen to this poem:
Photo Pine Point Moonlight Walk by Russ Seidel used under Creative Commons License (BY-NC-ND-2.0)