Chewing Moon Poem by Hans Ostrom
Chewing Moon
As I reached for the moon,
it shrank to the size of my hand.
Then it turned into a disc
no thicker than a sandwich.
Coincidentally, I took two
bites out of it. The texture:
that of sugar granules.
Taste: smoky lemon.
The moon in my hand bled
dark green where my teeth
had seized lunar flesh. Stung
by self-rebuke, I put the moon
back where I had found it, or
almost. It healed in its orbit.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/29/2024 2:23:04 PM # 1.0.0.1119
