yes, another poem about the moon 

you said there was nothing more 
to be done with moon poems so i 
took it from behind the shower-cap clouds
& kneaded it on the counter.
the mound of white-dough. the flour
on our hands, pressing down & stretching.
when i think of bread i think of my mom
& about the old oven with the cracked 
stove-top. we promise we're going to
put it back once we're done. in the mean
time we'll just let the ocean turn
still & rest. does it get tired of
being pulled back & forth? would it
run away if it could in a blue station wagon?
i turn on the faucet & out comes poppy seeds
for the everything bagels mom is going
to make. we're using the dough for bread bowls.
they rise on the counter with a damp
towel over their heads. that's what they
told us to do if you house is ever on fire,
put a damp towel over your head. they didn't
tell us what to do if that fire happens to
be god or the red-coil inside of the oven.
the timer on the stove laughed with green
neon numbers & i'd check it every few minutes.
we don't bake much anymore, especially not
with the moon, what with all the effort
it takes to yank it down from above. 
we open the oven just a crack to see the
planets with their browning tops &
their asymmetry. back then it frustrated
me that none of the bowls every came out 
"perfect" but now i think of them like 
good tossing out the marbles from his pocket,
hoping one catches in orbit & one was us &
one was a doughy moon. i always want to press
fresh bread to my face-- it feels like 
another body-- too warm to be alive. mom
would help me hoist the nicest one back up
between dull suburban sesame seed stars. she'd
let me cut the top off before we'd fill it
with a ladle of italian wedding soup. who's getting
married tonight? eating the broth-soaked crusts
with my fingers, mom breaking bread & releasing 
steam ghost clouds: this is what i do with the moon.