Launching the Moon
Does it really take two hands to toss it skywards? You’d think it could be done in the space of an owl’s blink, but you’re wrong. You cup this glossy thing, roll it over and over in your palm, hold it to the light and it’s a crystal ball crammed with other people’s futures. Apogee, perigee, this moon doesn’t have a dark side. It’s never gibbous; it’s all light, no shadows. It’s more than glow-in-the-dark, like the stickers you once had on the ceiling. It’s more than Wolf, Snow, Corn or Cold. More than Flower or Strawberry or Pink. It’s a metal weight reflecting the twisted truth of the world, a giant bowling ball to knock down the ten-pins in your life. You tip it from hand to hand and it’s a squidgy sac of fluid, a bullseye, yielding and moulding to your touch. A stub of chalk coating your skin with pale dust. A mistletoe berry full of goo. A lamp to light the love-lives of foxes. An entire truckle of Wensleydale. This strange round globe makes you invincible. You’re an expert gemmologist setting this ball of quartz in a crackle of stars and galaxies. One swipe of your hand and you’ve eclipsed Neil Armstrong’s boot scuffs. You’ve made your mark. Your fingerprints are on the moon.