The Grind by Ange Mlinko

The Grind

Three mini ciabattini for breakfast

where demand for persnickety bread

is small, hence its expense, hence my steadfast

recalculation of my overhead,

which soars, and as you might expect

the ciabattini stand in for my fantasy

of myself in a sea-limned prospect,

on a terrace, with a lemon tree...

Not: Assessed a fee for rent sent a day late.

Not: Fines accrued for a lost library book.

Better never lose track of the date.

Oversleep, and you’re on the hook.

It’s the margin for error: shrinking.

It’s life ground down to recurrence.

It’s fewer books read for the thinking

the hospital didn’t rebill the insurance;

the school misplaced the kids’ paperwork.

Here’s our sweet pup, a rescue

which we nonetheless paid for, and look:

he gets more grooming than I do.

When I turn my hand mill, I think of the dowager

who ground gems on ham for her guests;

the queen who ground out two cups of flour

on the pregnant abdomen of her husband’s mistress;

I think of a “great rock-eating bird”

grinding out a sandy beach,

the foam said to be particulate matter

of minute crustaceans, each

brilliantly spooning up Aphrodite

to Greek porticoes, and our potatoes,

and plain living which might be

shaken by infinitesimal tattoos.