Magda, how can you measure
the flour for your birthday cake
when there are grub worms in the pantry?
They want the bread crumbs, hard and grey
which you keep in the cupboards as a reminder:
there is always something left behind.
Even if it’s just a burnt birthday cake
on a Wednesday evening
followed by a lukewarm bath
and dreams of riding the bus
but missing your stop
so you get off a block north of Euclid
and stub your toe on a buckled slab of sidewalk.
Magda, the sun rises
just to fuck with your perception of time.
It rifles through your naughties
when you’re away at work
and judges you based on the good standing
of the elastic band at the top of your cotton undies.
For each pair untorn, clean and folded,
it makes a puffy white cloud
in the shape of your favorite animal cracker.
Magda, we all know the pleasantness
of a blue sky
licking our hunched backs.
The sky is folding in on itself
to hug you at the horizon.
But you will never notice such things
with your gaze fixed on the ground.
Isadora Gruye is a writer and photographer living in St. Paul, Minnesota. She believes in cartographers and beekeepers but has no need for maps or honey. She is co-founder and editor of Nice Cage Literary Magazine.
–Art by Milton G. (Paradise Found)
