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.