By Lizzet Clifton
By Elise Nelson
You pile high with coconut flakes,
cream whipped high, high, high in peaks
and summits and citrus sunsets on meringue vistas.
Moon dust is granular
and sweet. I’ve heard it said
in hushes and in whispers
that to inhale moon dust
will drown you
Craters fill with interstellar drizzle,
which cloys at the soles of your feet
with each idle dip—
beads viscously as you lift
your soft toes in the air,
peeling thick skin like sugared corkscrews.
Moon pie, sun pie, star pie, cloud pie—
allow the mallow fluff to caress your ears,
let your lobes tremble in ecstasy:
candy floss for cavities,
Jesus for your soul,
hard rock or pop rocks to fizz and foam
and explode over your malaise.
Take faith, take another bite.
Diabetes takes mercy
on the Sunday sacrament.