star cookbook

you must go out with bare feet.
shave your head into a felt hat
& carry the strands as an offering.
the stars begin to tremble
when the night is made of glass.
be careful to step around the wounds
in the dark. when you are ravenous 
what part of yourself do you consume? 
i used to eat my fingers. then, i would
swallow my tongue. tooth by tooth.
everything grows back. demands to be alive.
i often marvel at my own resilience. 
who is this body? surely, it is not me.
then i remember the knowledge of how
to pluck stars & shuck them from
their husks is sewn into my blood.
i come from a long line of searchers
& seers. we know that stars are a lot like tofu.
they take on the flavor of the fight we give them.
caramel & cardamom. sugar & splinter.
there is no cookbook for this work. there is 
just my baby teeth & their roots. little 
ornaments in the skull of a nebula.
this is how i make them. gloveless,
holding the deepest kind of fire. 
dropping them in the cast iron pan
with oil & garlic. stirring with 
the wooden spoon. the night is a scar inventory.
a scar is where the star is planted 
when the feast is done. tell me, when you find
the end of your hunger, who will you 
call out to? what mirror will you use
to watch your tongue grow back 
like the plucked leg of a harvestman?