After Remedios Varo 's painting of the same name
I must feed the moon, you say, as you turn
the wheel, grinding gelid night stars into ever
bright pablum. It's wrong, though, to consume
living light. Nothing can be more right than riven salt,
when silted with kindness, you tell the stars, as you grind
their shine into swirling powder on the small ceramic plate.
But you are captive here, Remedios, bound by
celestial task, punished for bringing edible light
into this inevitable world. Stand back, you warn.
Few can resist the shifting, sifted light. But why,
my lower back asks, why cage the curling crescent
moon? Soundless as moth crumb. Why forever
feed on its unending hunger? I must follow this
spoon, you note, into the merest mouth. Even
as it glows with the shine of skull. But why? Why not
let the moon glaze our flesh? Let it feast on vowel
of owl and vole. Silence. I must feed the moon,
you say, grinding the cosmos into dust.