Tyranny of the Milky Way

The way clouds taste as they go from castles to rabbits above your head.

You are twelve, your skin damp from the humid tropical day, the grass

under your arms and legs benign even if itchy. The way a million stars

scatter at night, and you in jersey gown and bare feet seek the same spot

from earlier in the day to count far away incandescent rocks and tucked

behind your ear your secret wish to spot a single UFO. The way a slice

of tres leches cake on your thirteenth birthday surrenders in unison on

your tongue its sweet milks. The way at twelve you tasted marvel and

by fourteen you’d tasted war.