Premonition and Going Green

by Tonya Eberhard


Breakfast diner,

morning light.


Horrible dream last

night that jolted the

living upright in bed.


It was a hand waving

from the station,

a flickering light on the train.


Light bulb surrounded by

faceless strangers, these shadow

bodies contorting in pain.


The call from the window,

the opening of the boxcar door.


Where are you going?

Where are you going?



Do not ask for anything less,

or anything more.


The shadows crept up,

flew down as


a knife cut through a

blueberry pancake.


Pass the syrup,

coffee and cream.


After all,

it was last night,


everything made of night

is simply just a dream.



Going Green

Look to the moon.

It is a quarter in the sky.


He searches the glove compartment

for spare change

in the parking lot of McDonalds.


Crumpled McChicken wrappers.

Smashed plastic lids.

Chewed up straws.


I want to tell him—

Reach for the moon.


But I am silent,

a smile dissolving from thin lips.


1990 penny on the asphalt.

Heads facing up.


I have not eaten in four years.


Tonya Eberhard recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Fauna Quarterly, Algebra of Owls, The Commonline Journal, Dirty Chai, Yellow Chair Review, Open Minds Quarterly, and many others.

Photo Credit: E-chan via Flickr, All Creative Commons


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