Spaghetti steam and life on Jupiter.

I was bare foot and torn knee-shorts
in August. That was when I was hairy knees and
razor burn anklets. 
I chewed the planets like gum balls
and my mouth could handle all nine
before they decided that Pluto was
just a gobstopper. My mother laughed
and taught me how to eat planets like
spaghetti-- steam fogged glasses and
the colander in the kitchen sink.
We picked the strand up with our hands--
bold--vapor hot hands. The steam
always turned my hair to spaghetti--
linguine curls and my mother's waves
of lasagna layers. She washed me in sauce
to dress in Parmesan from the green-jacket
jars always on the top shelf of the refrigerator.
We wore wagon wheels as diamond ring
in a promenade to the porch light where
we laid as pasta bowls 
in front of the stars. My father would
always and till this day call me
"angle hair"
If I could go anywhere tonight I would go to Jupiter--
become the vapors to cook the spaghetti
and steam the asparagus and zucchini. I'd collect
in water beads on the lids of pans
that both my brother and I wore
as space helmets. We made so many journeys from
the backyard up the ladder to our moon.
I'd use the lunar bodies as stepping stones
until I reached the steamy surfaces
of Jupiter's four Galilean moons--hopscotch-
holding noodles in my hands--jar of sauce-- 
a bent-neck fork--
In space people don't need bowls.
You know Jupiter is that largest planet
and somehow I still think it's lonely 
with all that pasta and steam? She cooks and cooks
and cooks for a family that could never
be big enough to fill her girth, hides
shyly in the camera flash of Hubble who
stares deeply into her red spot-- The birthmark
kiss of creation given to her by the stars--
what are planets but moons and moons just
holly berries waiting for it to frost
so they can inhabit my cheek bones--
It's cold up here and she cooks for
me and she cooks well. I ask her about summer
and about steam and about bare feet.
She tells me that she IS summer and steam
and bare feet but that none of those things
had ever mattered without a bowl or
a colander or a sink.
I tell her that I'm not barefoot anymore
and she melts me into noodles to toss
in another batch of sauce-- lays me
in a bed of basil and asks me to be her wife.
I say I was meant to fog up glasses 
and get caught in the colander of my mother. 
She understands and fills the tupperware
like usual-- stacks it in the fridge
as leftovers for the visitors 
who are likely not coming 
this summer or the next. 
She'll eat the pasta alone
tonight and I'll pluck her
from the night sky
like a gumball.