Poems by Magdalena Polska
by Magdalena Polska
The Disappearing Sweetness
It has green and yellow streaks that glint in the sunlight, some brown spots like tiny maps of history, imprints where it has been touched or squished. The skin feels slightly greasy, like a pan rinsed but not fully clean. I imagine it hanging on a Tuscan vineyard, the sun warming the grapes, small ants crawling along the stems, bees buzzing nearby, landing lightly on the fruit. A farmer lifts the cluster toward the light, examining each grape for ripeness, deciding which need more days in the sun. Baskets creak as they are loaded onto trucks, workers’ hands sticky with juice, careful not to bruise the fruit. Shoppers in the market glance at the fruit, not noticing its subtle textures, the tiny history pressed into each grape.
Chewing the bitter skin reminds me of erasers, dry but slightly sticky, a pause before the sweetness appears. Juice bursts in tiny floods, faintly earthy, mixed with subtle sugar, like the smell of soil after rain or morning dew on leaves. Warm in my hands, the fruit feels soft, almost alive, holding sun-warmed energy even after its long journey. Everything carries a story—fruit, people, places— shaped by time, touch, and travel. When will the sweetness never disappear? Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it just shifts, hiding, waiting to be discovered again in another form.
The Fragile But Addictive
The snack has been tested by hands and machines, ensuring the crunch is perfect, addictive, precise. It is slapped with bright red dust, spicy, almost glowing, like neon light against a dark wall, or sunset trapped in sugar. The coating is thin, rough, and fragile, falling off if you touch it too hard. Its shape is twisted, swirled like broken rubber, like a stick, like a tiny, delicate bone. Under the bright kitchen light, the surface gleams—red and orange, rough, dry, clinging like crayon wax covered in powder. The snack is lightweight but would snap under too much pressure. Dust sticks to my fingers, leaving streaks of color.
The smell is strange: raw chicken mixed with chili, or like the dusty bag of an old vacuum, pungent yet curious. The powder tingles on my lips, dry at first, then burning, making my mouth water, craving the next bite. The crunch lasts a few seconds, then collapses into tiny shards, messy, intense, satisfying in a sharp, fleeting way. The aftertaste lingers, red, smoky, spicy, already pulling me toward another piece. I eat it at the fair, sunlight filtering through canvas tents, kids running past, laughter colliding with the scent of spices, dusting my fingers with flavor and memory. I want another, reaching, tasting, feeling, held in this small moment of sharp, fragile pleasure.