The Morning Hour

by Sofia Valencia

A faraway siren reminds me of a dream
in which the bathtub filled with orange fish,
their viscous heads lurching from the open drain. 
Meanwhile, something outside caught on fire
and then the fish were in the cashew trees,
writhing in their quiet frenzy. 
How awful, I thought, to be in two places
at once and be dying in both.
No, I have never been the same since. 
Bright is the early morning. The air bears
no violent gesture and everything is 
calling my name. A ripe leaf settles on
the empty road—inconsequential 
as a hair—yet it stills me like a fired gun.

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