My Father Slices the Moon
With the blade of his paring knife,
he bisects, then quarters, slips
steel through sugary lumen
to prise dark gold from its heart.
At the table, where we receive
our portions of sweetness,
all the world seems caramel spun.
I savor my share, lick its sticky jelly
clear down to the oily paper.
Outside the September kitchen,
the moon rises, glazing the tips
of the crook-necked pine.
Inside, I want to hold this kindness:
the moon, suspended in its syrup
of sky, the salt of the yolk flaking
into the crevices of my tongue,
and my father, still seated at the end
of our honey-oak table, slivering
the day’s leavings into strands
of emulsified light.
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