Imaginary Rooms

Notice how the light washes this building blond, how the brickwork neatly frames each closed window. The appointed rooms, elegant in their simplicity, seem emptied, except for these ghosts on weightless feet who hover above the blooms. Rare orchids, with purple thoughts, perfume in green pots while fronds feather no Mediterranean sky. A shade of blue splashes everything pale as pool tiles; a kind of violence lives here, a hush. Rooms float in brine like formaldehyde fetuses with one open eye. Mirrors flash. The owner is gone. The Siamese cat sharpens her claws.

Jenene Ravesloot

First Published in Sad Girl Review, 2018


Fresh sardines, heads, tails, and guts still intact.
Speared sardines stuck in the blond sand of La
Malagueta Beach. Salted sardines that roast on
skewers. Sardines crackling in sand-filled boats
that have been turned into barbeques. Sardines
piled on plates by the dozen, rubbed with more
oil and sea salt. We smell it, the scent of oil,
salt, smoke and sea as we hold each flaking
sardine by both ends, begin to eat the pungent
flesh. We discard heads, tails, viscera and bones
onto this imported sand from the Sahara desert,
then wipe our hands on our arms and legs before
we plunge into the Mediterranean while the sun
spins and glistens like a net of caught fish.

Jenene Ravesloot