
When his class studies
Chapter Four: Space, Jason wants
to eat stars for breakfast, refuses eggs, bacon,
toast. Too much milk
spills onto the plastic table cloth, the birth
of the milky way around the bottom
of his bowl.
He can't stop talking, proud
that he knows the Northern Lights,
the constellations, his spoon
disapearing sporadically into the black hole
of his mouth.
Sugar, the color of dreams, sticks
to the corners of his lips, a constellation
of crumbs, the little dipper
already late for school, wipes
his mouth over Orion's belt,
leaves a nebula streaking across
his clean shirt.

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