Mary Morris

The war was over. We sutured the wounded, buried the dead, sat at the bar with the enemy, near the blue throat of the sea. A sushi chef slivered salmon into orchids, etched clouds from oysters, as they rose snowing pearls. From shrimp and seaweed he shaped hummingbirds, which hovered above our heads. With the world’s smallest blade he carved from yellowfin, miniature flanks of horses. They cantered around our hands.