Restaurant

The stars are glitter in the glistening oil bubbles of our food as it appears. The galaxy pops and fizzles.

 Tonight fish search for the moon on my plate.

 There is an imaginary spacesuit on as I break apart a set of chopsticks, precise instruments, delicate in the suit’s grey-gloved hands. A red sun lightyears away heats shiny lobster claws and onion. The steam the hot lobster gives off is like gas off of bright Jupiter, reflecting in its beady black eye.

 I love this seafood restaurant for is cosmic wall-lighting. We are huddled in the corner where the night sky is brightest. It’s my birthday. I deserve this.