Los Angeles...

by Jennifer Gravley

...becomes condensed in memory, becomes black cow eyes, becomes the seed-choked jelly of the spine, the 10 a thin thread pulled through thick smogscrapers, barrio to ocean. I drive us as on a magnetic track, hot and bright as any first time. You can't help but look. We wade through a thick hotel lobby to the glass wall where ocean overtakes sand — see the living shells! Ambitious creatures attach to the glass and suck; when you lean in, they suck the ends of your hair. Suddenly, I remember: everything sad and hungry I, autogenous, brought into being.


Jennifer Gravley's recent work appears online at 400 Words, 21 Stars Review, and Triplopia.