What about Cheerios, awash 
in the milk of the night
or the chalk dust of toast –
imagine the stars swiped from the sky by a napkin. 
A cereal bar, with rivers 
of yogurt and chocolate 
aliens of dried apple –
I am decorated with wrappers like aeronautical debris.  
My granddad told me
the moon is made of cheese; 
the sandwiches sweat in my bag.
The bags eclipse my eyes. 
My parents try to coax me, 
pizza, with craters and a lunar crust 
takes half an hour to eat –
the base tastes like cardboard and grief
and is unreachable 
through either small steps or giant leaps.