2 June 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 2
Gravity
Mitzi's eyes were large as nipples
in an ice storm, her lips quivery and thin
after the Russian steppe peasant fashion.
She wanted to die, as many of us do,
in her sleep, lights off, her last memory
some love-flooded event from childhood:
a cemetery smooch, or pork roll picnic
under the elm with her best friend, Phil.
"But I want it to be fun too," she said,
nibbling her nails, giggling.
"I want Daddykins to make that monster face
like he's gonna eat me!"
Mitzi loved laughing as much as she loved dying,