Spring 2011

Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 1

Poetry    Translations    Fiction

Teresa White

The Explorer

Honey, with that beard
you look like a man

who’s discovered something.
Something large.

An island, at least, perhaps
a continent.

I see you there
in your robes and pantaloons

wading with your great staff
through the surf

dying to name the land
as if it belonged to you.

Tonight in the Family Waiting Room

There is a rhododendron
large as a baby’s head,
a spray of forget-me-nots
tied with shiny ribbon
in the corner vase.

The free coffee has stood so long
it doesn’t taste like coffee, burns
my hands in the Styrofoam cup.
I sip anyway, have work to do.
Until the angel of the Lord appears

to resurrect the dying,
I continue to knit my hands
together, hoping for something
all the King’s men can’t offer.
In the center of the room

two women work a puzzle and turn
pieces with such finesse,
I’ve no doubt they’ll finish
this jigsaw before their father dies
if he’s going to.

Letter to my Late Mother’s Psychiatrist

Dear Dr. Cohen,

Not sure if you heard
that Molly died
three months ago.

She never stopped
talking about you.
The way you’d get

up out of your corner
and pet her hair.
That’s the way

she put it.
I’ve always wondered
why the two of you

never got married.
I guess I’m trying to say
that in all the years we lived

under the same principles,
roof, whatever,
she never stopped

talking about you.
Now, when I try
to remember

even one day
when she was completely
happy, I can’t.

It was always
Dr. Cohen this.
Dr. Cohen that.

She would never
have addressed you
by your first name.

© Teresa White

Poetry    Translations    Fiction

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