Moon as Aged
Cheese
The moon is
milk curdled with a couple
drops of
lemon. It once sprawled
like the
milky way; a spilled bucket
of milk across
the sky. A squirt of citrus
brought it
together into the shape
of a curdled
globe, a head of cheese.
I raise it
out of the vast vat
of space, that
black ink brine
of salt and
meteorite. I take a bite
from it,
ripe with gravity. The mass of its
flavor,
floral, ribboned with silver mold,
bitter,
creamy. I will pair it with andromeda
in my
stemmed wine glass, swirl the galaxy
and sip its
aroma, the taste of black holes and
rolling the
fragrance of deepest space, silence
casked and barreled,
the universe a cellar,
cool and
damp, storing away the flavors
of earth,
planet, and shooting star.
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