by Federica Santini

There’s a parched girl in each red sphere, long locks
black as stars: if you pluck the fruit she’ll drink from
your soul.

bite

There are hands in each leaf, thin fingers of rivers to
twist you: your upside-down realm spiraling
out, queen turned into snake, talking geese, innards
of fish hiding the secret.

bite


Under the taut skin of fruit the girl chants for you:
fairytale Sunday, thirsty garden of dreams, yellowed
loss.

About the author:

Federica Santini lives in Atlanta and works at Kennesaw State University. She holds an MA from the University of Siena, Italy, and a PhD from UCLA. She has authored or edited four volumes on poetics and her creative work has been published internationally in over fifty journals and anthologies.

Photo by Margaret Jaszowska on Unsplash