The moon is looking particularly round tonight, I think, as I lay sprawled in the grass. I wonder if it’s looking down on me and my pretending to be a human rug, thinking the same thing. Somewhere in its moonish mind the thought Wow, April is looking particularly round tonight is probably floating. And maybe the moon is right, maybe we’re both right.
Tonight the moon looks like a pie. It’s almost as if I could reach up, and with the most careful tips of my fingers, pull off a slice and eat it. Of course, as with any pie, I can’t just stop at one slice. So I reach up again with my careful tips and pull off another slice, and then another, and then another until I have eaten the entire moon. Until there are only crumbs remaining, which people will probably mistake for stars.
But if I ate the entire moon I would look pregnant—and not just pregnant with one child, no—I would look pregnant with every baby that has ever been born. I would walk around, the expecting mother that I am, with a certain gleam or shine about me.
And people would be like, “Aw, April, you’re glowing.”
And I’d be like “I know, I accidentally swallowed the moon.”
And if boys thought I was disgusting now, wait until they see me glowing and pregnant with billions of children. I’ve always thought that being the kind of fat I am now is okay, because eventually I would find a boy as equally fat and we’d fall in love with each other’s fatness. But if I ate the entire moon the only person who would love me is someone who was as equally fat and as equally glowing, possibly, someone who ate the sun. But anybody who ate the sun would probably be dead, or be, at the very least, in a lot of pain.
And so, with the most careful tips of my fingers only centimeters away from the moon, I lower my hand back into the grass. God knows I don’t need any more pie.
Tonight the moon looks like a pie. It’s almost as if I could reach up, and with the most careful tips of my fingers, pull off a slice and eat it. Of course, as with any pie, I can’t just stop at one slice. So I reach up again with my careful tips and pull off another slice, and then another, and then another until I have eaten the entire moon. Until there are only crumbs remaining, which people will probably mistake for stars.
But if I ate the entire moon I would look pregnant—and not just pregnant with one child, no—I would look pregnant with every baby that has ever been born. I would walk around, the expecting mother that I am, with a certain gleam or shine about me.
And people would be like, “Aw, April, you’re glowing.”
And I’d be like “I know, I accidentally swallowed the moon.”
And if boys thought I was disgusting now, wait until they see me glowing and pregnant with billions of children. I’ve always thought that being the kind of fat I am now is okay, because eventually I would find a boy as equally fat and we’d fall in love with each other’s fatness. But if I ate the entire moon the only person who would love me is someone who was as equally fat and as equally glowing, possibly, someone who ate the sun. But anybody who ate the sun would probably be dead, or be, at the very least, in a lot of pain.
And so, with the most careful tips of my fingers only centimeters away from the moon, I lower my hand back into the grass. God knows I don’t need any more pie.