Sleeping at The Plaza

　　by 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.