My Father Slices the Moon

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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.