When he was young,

his uncle had told him

that the moon

was made of cheese.

 

From that point on,

he had ecstatically consumed

every Muenster, Cheddar,

and Swiss encountered.

 

He burgeoned into

“l’activiste du fromage,”

cultivating no discrimination

as to nationality, taste, or age.

 

If there was

a chunk of the moon

fallen to Earth,

he was the first

to consume its magic.

 

No one had ever

enlightened him

to the fact that the moon

was merely a reflector.

The sun did it all.

 

On its own,

the moon is only

a pock-marked stone satellite,

incapable of even

a cigarette’s glow.

 

Still, he clung

to the lunar cheese theory,

waxing,

never waning,

until the total eclipse.

 

Copyright 2017