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Arlene Ang
Snow White and the Seventh Dwarf
Snow White,
that's what you called me,
skin buttery with apple musk.
And you
were the Seventh Dwarf,
eyes groping with desire
to lick my navel.
I walked barefoot
on the summer grass,
sang the whole day
like a dryad mortally in love
while combing my hair
by the cottage fire;
you scrounged dead mines
taking dirt for diamonds,
until you wised up,
turned Huntsman,
decided to set me free.
And I, tiring of the woods,
threw down my seraphic mask,
returned to my castle,
my mirror on the wall.
se solamente ti ripenso
i.
tense clouds smudged
by a dirt-wind clawing
through willow leaves
leak gastric rain
silence in the stab of liquid mercury
ii.
a cello
raises a siren song
Ligeia pushing herself from the rocks
clouds break
into shards of bleached porcelain
iii.
the aria ends
and the rain continues
its patter of liquid feet
but without the mercurial sting
©2002 by Arlene Ang
Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy, as a freelance translator, volunteer
Web designer. She also edits the Italian Niederngasse.
Her poetry has recently appeared in Poet's
Canvas, Scrivener's Pen, Sometimes City, Tryst, three candles and
Sidereality. Recent awards include: Absinthe Literary Review 2002
Eros & Thanatos Prize Winner and Clean Sheets 2003 Poetry Contest 2nd
Place Winner.
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