feeding an apple to the moon

you would not believe 
how much work it takes
to reach the teeth. i start from a seed 
in a field of glass. i start with my eyes 
on a golden plate just like saint lucy. the apple
perched right beside them in the dish. 
when you hear "apple"
in a poem it is never just an apple.
it is the skull of a grandmother or else
a pocket bible or else a dragon's ancient organ. 
i wait for all the chickens to return to their
dinosaur palace before i make my trek.
a journey for me is whenever i have to 
take off my skin. i am descended from selkies.
skilled at the art of breaking my face
like a dinner plate. there was night where
i hid beneath the bed. i saw apples grow 
& fall to the floor from the box spring. 
he crawled on top of the bed & the birds 
all screamed. the night field has nothing
to do with the day field. hushed wind.
my shaking hands. i have never been 
a steady human. it takes hours of 
trusting & untrusting shadows but
i always make it & the mouth is always
like a forgotten flower. fish hooks & steak knives
for teeth. i pet the knotted head of the moon.
say, "i know you have been craving this."
she chews & spits out a single ribbon
or sometimes a needle. i have yet to understand
what i should do with them. it is not about
repayment though. it is enough to know
the moon was hungry & i left 
my skin to feed her. better yet,
no one knew where i was.