2 June 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 2


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,