Mammy’s Fever.

June, 1988

Her small hands lift the cool, white sheets

their pastried skin,



Beneath folding, looping veins

bones of steel.

. . . .


deliberate digits

tapping lightly in little rhythms

begin gathering the cool sheets for rehearsal.

. . . .

Moving through time

they trace

the patterns of the life they now describe

. . . .

Outside the window,

the cat

that was never there


Mammy  dreams


in her hospital bed,


making pleats.







© Ruth Ann Scanzillo


all rights. Bless you.

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