The moon sits on my
tongue.
Like snow, it melts, drops
of winter, cold white wine,
like I ****** the light out of a
lightning bug, lemony glow coating
my teeth.
I swallow the moon.
I swallow it like I swallow words,
raspberries to crush against the roof of
my mouth.
I want to eat all the words in the world,
every last one sitting warm and
ready in my belly, spoons of honey or
hot metal,
or cold and hard in my throat like
stones or cool cucumber slices.
I want them to
fill me, clutter my thoughts and lungs and
settle under my nails and on the tips of my
eyelashes to dust
my face every
time I
blink.