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Sleeping at The Plaza

Eve Alexandra
There were tiny hounds sniffing out their gilded cages. Fireplaces 
chaste, unlit and beds soft as the pears I ate from palms outstreched. 
The hem of my dress was wet from the fountain and finally it lay on
the floor like the slick blue skin of a fish. We danced silver as a
shiny hook. I heard them clap: red nails flashing smiles. One
misplaced kiss, one eye shut. The concierge bald and fat, cuddling 
his little pink prick. The elevator stuck. The city was singing. 
Someone was taking pictures. My legs splintered at the hips, and 
that night New York wrecked and swelled inside me. A beautiful girl 
is a great storm, slapped around by the hands of her own desire. 
She lifts up the green skirt of Central Park, wading twelve floors 
below, and wishes once more for coachmen and carriage: to be salt 
and tear in the horse’s eye, to dissolve beneath his blinders.

Poem from The Drowned Girl, reprinted with permission of Kent State University Press

Poem from The Drowned Girl, reprinted with permission of Kent State University Press

Eve Alexandra

by this poet

They are everywhere--those sunflowers with the coal heart center. They riot 
without speaking, huge, wet mouths caught at half-gasp, half-kiss.
Flowers she promises I’ll grow into, sweet gardener,
long luminous braids I’d climb like ladders, freckles scattered 
across our shoulders in a spell of pollen. She’s
Be careful if you take this flower into your house. The 
peony has a thousand lips. It is pink and white like the lady’s 
skirt and smells sharp and sweet as cinnamon. There are a 
thousand ants living inside but you will only see one or two at 
a time. I am like that down there--pink and busy inside. The 
This is a quiet grave. In is not made of myths, of great barbarous fish, of coral, 
or salt. No one submerges himself with metal and rubber, no one shines her 
white light along the floor. Search parties have been suspended. There is no 
treasure buried here. This is the place of what-is-not. Of a green so green