The Aluminium Apples of the Moon   My skin’s the tarnished silver filigree of ferns under a waning sky, reflecting light pale from its long trip from sun to moon to earth. Luna’s my long-lost mother; I hunger for her milk that lies thick as metal cream over the brackish cold tea of the creek. It’s slathered on the ti-tree trunks as well, profligate and white as death. One levitating night, I’ll rise into the air and through the void. My crescent fangs will pierce the aluminium apples of the moon and I will suck their juice.   Jenny…