Summer 2011

Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 2

Poetry    Fiction    Translations     Reviews

MiMi Zannino

The Wake

The three-year-old scans
a room of mourners,
her eyes, dewy as
rich soil after rain,
absorbing her great-aunt
lying silent as a plaster saint,
rosary lacing porcelain fingers—
Catholic worry-beads.
Gladiola and carnations
Roses and lilies neatly arranged
with sashes spelling out
Mother, Sister, Grandmother

The child says:
Whispering won’t wake her.


A heap of salt
sprawls across
the kitchen floor--
all that remains of
the tears I have shed--

you pass by
toss a pinch
on your tongue--
are you
thirsty for more?





© MiMi Zannino

Poetry    Fiction    Translations     Reviews

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