breakfast on the moon
the moon has terrible cafés –
the coffee tastes like burnt postcards
the syrup tastes faintly of batteries
and the eggs arrive folded into tiny origami boats
still, we go every morning
you sit across from me
wearing your new gravity,
stirring sugar into your cup
there are blue ketchup stains on the tablecloth –
continents from a country that collapsed politely
years ago
the waiter brings chewy bread
there is something holy
about difficult bread
I can’t remember if we’re divorced
or merely orbiting at a respectful distance
the moon jukebox only plays whale sounds
and a familiar song
that skips exactly before the word ‘’home’’
at the counter,
a child in silver boots
tries to pay for pancakes
with four beautiful rocks
the cook accepts them
this is why I love the moon
its economy is based entirely
on sentimentality and dust
you tell me Earth looked small last night
“it looked as small as a blue pill,” you say,
and butter another piece of bread
I nod as though I understand adulthood
through the window,
the dark opens forever in every direction
the kindest thing I’ve ever seen
the Earth looks to me like blue-green bacterial growth
with little foamy white republics multiplying in the dark
It is embarrassing to be alive this long
It is embarrassing to keep wanting breakfast
