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.
Salty
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