Dinner: A Whimsical Moon Poem
From the archives

I dangle my legs off the yellow glow that burns the night. I take a chunk of moon and grind it with a pepper mill into a thousand glowing pieces, and I take the sun that I shredded into angel hair pasta this afternoon, and eat a nice meal while I watch the stars blink on and off. When I can’t stand the heat of the pepper or the pasta or the moon, I reach for night and quickly drink it. Feeling content, I tumble to the ground where I’ve been laying on the grass all along.
~Aimée Gramblin, 1995ish.
