By Sofija Zovko
when you come to my table,
I will serve you urchin, raw
crown cut: an orange blossom
you may have it with butter
spread thick on white bread
and once you take that first bite,
let me ask you
when you eat of my urchin,
can you feel the gulls cry against shuttered windows?
can you smell the brine of your skin?
can you taste why blue became modro,
why the sea churned until it coloured itself so?