at dawn, a woman

by | Issue #5, Poetry

at dawn, a woman
drags herself through cobbled alleys
wailing, and then begins
over a plate of dry eggs
to speak

and from the doorway of a key shop, a man
with no teeth yells at a plaza
of tables and chairs, and smokes so much
a rain-cloud forms over Los Angeles

and the drinking fountain in the plaza becomes
a freshwater ocean, and the woman swears
that if she ever eats again
the fish will have to catch her

and the city walls break in ancient crumbles
to the sea

Marcella Eve is a poet who lives, writes, and bakes in San Diego. At present, she is
completing her first collection,
Letters from Zagreb. Find her on Twitter @eveofmarcella.