she called herself Magda she had eyes deep tawny green like a bamboo forest the skin around them sagged like the last morsels of dried cocoon from an emerging Monarch she whispered into my face her breath sour like piss and beer and roses cheap potpurri she taxed me with guessing her age my mind trembling i smiled and raised my 10 fingers gesturing three times Magda was tickled so much so that she asked the two weird sisters in her head if I could live with them she was ageless her face wrinkled like an old walnut at the bottom of the bin cheeks rouged brick red lips purple brows rubbed off in time by constant fists and bumps Magda looks across Vermont Ave the pigeons coo in echo
words less spoken 