My mother, the silly woman, she cries about spilt breadcrumbs.
I say to her, “don’t cry Ma”
These breadcrumbs are lost to the satiny expanse of the floor
If trampled, the breadcrumbs are nothing more than dirt now
Sand grains on the beach would mean much more to your feet than the dirt these crumbs have become
For unlike the breadcrumbs, the sand speaks of the things it has been shown
It tells of what the sea itself has bled into it
Apart, these grains of sand say nothing, but together they make the shore line and the tales that they carry as a dynasty
But breadcrumbs have nothing
They, do not get back together again, Ma
I wish that I could go back to when the bread wasn’t bread, and instead was still just plain, powdery and pure
Back to when the flour was untainted by sugar or salt
When it hadn’t been drowned by milk or water
Before it had been abused into dough
As if it had never been hardened by heat
Take me back to when it could’ve been anything
So to my mother I say, “don’t cry”
These are just spilt breadcrumbs
They mean nothing