Alexandra Munck is a flowering hybrid of speculative fiction and poetry. Her work
has appeared in Three-Lobed Burning Eye, Lackington's, MORIA, Sweet Tree Review,
and others. She is currently planted in Illinois (USA).



Cleaning the kitchen again. This morning I sent packhorses to Crete to deliver notes from the future, to commune with the goats with the squared-off pupils. "Appreciate," I ordered, as a menu selection, "this heel before the plantar fasciitis hits, your safe wildness, these vinegary dolmades. Delectate and send memories back with the horses." Turns out, the horses don't want to come back. They've been ensorcelled by the little goats. As if a goat could clean a kitchen as well as I do. I want to possess ninety-degree angles.


Wiping counters. There is a different hardness to every human surface. I hear the soft scrape of fingernails on balsa wood. Surrrre, surrrre. I want to design a bridge in shop class. We can stack textbooks on it until all the angles refuse to maintain themselves, until they bow to us. And it breaks. What's funner than that?


You'll want to own a good hardwood dining set. Here's how you clean it: with Pine-Sol and a soft cloth. The oak bathes in the scent of the forest. Is that comforting? Maybe I am taunting it. The freedom to grow where it began as a wind-rolled nut, the freedom from supporting my tired ass after a day of scrubbing. Up from the basement, marshmallows of cool air rush through the vents like breath through pan pipes. A disillusioned horse wanders in. He tells me in my father's voice that funner is not a word.


Everything human is porous. Everything human is temporary, surrrre, surrrre. Everything human is a glacier or my steam iron. Thylacines walk through the pumiced air, alighting on the board. Dodos, Didos, old moments that gallop me with regret, all pressed and embroidered onto sheets that I will tuck into perfect hospital corners. It's not necessary, but it's what I do at my house. It makes the whole bed look like a present, a colorful, tasteful morsel in dead cotton.


Yesterday I saw a bird perched on an impossibly slim stem. As I came closer, I saw that it wasn't a cardinal or a scarlet tanager, but an exploded tulip, petals barely hanging on.

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