By Renate Wildermuth

I ate the sun today.
Cracked that hard border of space,
peeled off the white ozone layer
of an egg and
bit its yellow molten star in half.
My son tells me I can't eat the sun.
"I just did."
"It's not dark out."
"I'm not finished."
I open the black hole of my mouth.
Tell him to close his eyes.
He won't
I close mine.
Tight.
Swallow the light.
"See," I say.
"It's dark."
"Your eyes are closed,
It's not dark," says the scientist.
I open my eyes.
See him glance out the window
just to be sure.

I'm still hungry.