Can’t Name Trees Either

Plastic spoons, no bellies to show for,
scooping the cream left unswallowed,

strew the pavement like bird food.
Who’s to say it’s unnatural?

Street parties are well straddled
heaving from recycling bins,
We were thrown, we will last!

While something ruffles and dots the sky. It might be
February, it might be March –
months by now make bend-over cusps.

Specks overhead could be swallows, or arrows.

(that finger from clouds
never pointed anywhere
that got us there)

But since a certain kind of western man stalemated the seasons
I can’t name birds, or tell much difference between each month.

A pink, turquoise cake testifies to this.

I step over a paper plate, and hope the
feathered things are as well fed as Europe.



Marta Wolny currently resides and writes in London. Her digital footprint is rather small but she hopes to publish something with a spine that’s slightly bigger. Instagram: @mtaw0l