eat the sky

#“eat the sky”

On my 10th birthday,
I tried to fit the sky in my mouth.
I parted my lips, wrapped them
around the blunt end of a cloud
 
and chewed. I clutched at
the air by the fistful,
pushing it past my teeth,
onto my tongue, and down my throat.
 
When I finished with the cloud,
I shimmied up the trunk of a tree
and plucked the sun
from its home like an apple.
 
I ate it in three greedy gulps and
climbed higher, even as its lemon
juices squirmed down my chin
and stained the front of my t-shirt.
 
Halfway up, I spied a comet
racing away like a squirrel.
I caught it by the tail and licked my lips.
It popped and crunched
 
On my palate like the caramel corn
daddy bought me once at the circus.
I pushed with my toes, and though
the bark scraped my knees,
 
I climbed higher still.
The moon was next, and her stars.
I scooped them all up in my palms
like trail-mix, as I watched
 
the neighbor boy finish mowing the lawn
and put old man Palmer’s machine away.
I enjoyed the way his back muscles rippled
in the dwindling starlight.
 
I tossed Polaris and the Pleiades
in my mouth, one at a time,
completing my work, even as
he completed his.
 
My belly now distended like a pregnant mother,
I unhinged my jaw and belched.
And an orchestra of river and light
poured out of me,
 
and filled the space around my body.
And then I jumped.
 
Because there were acorns
for the things that scurry in the fields.
 
And boldly striped tents for the things
that roar and bellow in the night.
 
And sheds for the things
that whirr and clank in young boys hands.
 
But there was no more sky for little girls
who dream of tasting it.

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