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