Eating the Moon By Gay Baines On a rare night with no snow or cloud came a full moon, white and chill. I reached right through the glass, it felt like gelatin as I reached up to cull a great scoop of white light. This late the moon had lost its face, its sad regard, its round mouth. I felt no guilt for my bold theft Placed the little moon on a white fluted porcelain place, shoved it in the fridge next to the orange juice. Tried to put it on my cereal, but it wouldn’t pour, wouldn’t mix. It did mingle with my tea, but tasted of salt. By lunchtime it had become viscous. Put it in the freezer. After dinner, spooned some into a bowl, sprinkled it with amaretti crumbs and by golly it tasted great. That night I dreamed of wolves and giant tangerines. In the morning I saw visions of white sails. The moon sample sat, slightly shrunken on its Royal Worcester bed. That evening I waited for the moon overhead. Bundled like an infant I went out in the yard with my little moonlet, thinking how black everything looked, and gazed up. The moon was clear: lidless eyes, horrified mouth. I held the plate as high as I could stretch. Heard a great rush of wings. Or was it a sucking sound? The plate, a wedding gift, shattered, the silver liquid streaked a long pencil line to its milky giant source. The moon jerked to one side as its stolen light brightened its face. Now all my food is cold on my tongue. That’s what I get. Contributor’s Note: GAY BAINES lives and writes in East Aurora. A longtime member of the Roycroft Wordsmiths, she is the co-owner and co-editor of July Literary Press.