The Mother Of Crumbs Poem by Maria Mitea

i was making a scoop with one hand
with the other palm wide open
i collected them

while they were silent
put together
looking like the old ladies from my neighborhood

the silence from them entered my body,

all care was, not to get hurt,
sitting
face to face, on a corner of the table, me on the edge of the bed,
other times, lying on the floor on my stomach, i rolled my eyes around them;
fluffy, crunchy,
dry,
sticky, more whitish,
black from burnt bark,
some rolled easily, others stuck to the floor,
i was looking for bruises, tooth bites,
one day
so that they don't get hit by other children from the house
i put them in a cheesecloth next to the stove,
besides the snoring cat
to guard them.