Magdalena

Maggie, short for Magdalena,
strolls away from me with an orange in her hand,
sticky from the grub of the day.

The earth moves for Maggie.
How could it not?
Around her there must be some mystical shield,
an angel, maybe, or a protective spell.
I imagine the heavens holding a council meeting
to discuss bringing the mountain to Maggie.

And she drinks of it with ferocious thirst.
Maggie grabs the world by its scruff
but then with worshiping hands, cradles it.
And the world, it cradles her back.

She's got some umbrella against the clattering,
the jostling, the pianos that fall from the seventh story.

I, too, move for Magdalena.
I call her by her given name and will the asteroids to strike elsewhere.