Marilyn Annucci photoMarilyn Annucci is the author of two chapbooks: Waiting Room, which won the 2012 Sunken Garden Poetry Prize, selected by Tony Hoagland (Hill-Stead Museum, 2012) and Luck (Parallel Press, 2000). Her work has appeared in various journals online and in print, including Dogwood, The Sow’s Ear, Verse Wisconsin, Umbrella Journal, Prairie Schooner, Southern Poetry Review, North American Review, Wisconsin People & Ideas, qarrtsiluni, 5 am, and Indiana Review. She is an associate professor in the Department of Languages and Literatures at the University of Wisconsin–Whitewater.

Waiting Room cover spacer
Order her new chapbook, Waiting Room, directly from Marilyn at annuccim@aol.com or marann47@gmail.com.

Tony Hoagland had this to say about the book: “There’s a wry compassion for the human in all of the various, exquisite poems in this collection. Sometimes the speaker is the one on the cross, or at the crossroads, sometimes it is a stray dog, or a loved one with Parkinson’s. The imagination is our angel, the speaker knows, and language is the unsentimental, inventive, tender genius that makes poems like this possible. Superb work.”


Marilyn Annucci’s work on the web:

“The Smallest Bones”

“K” broadside from Architrave Press

qarrtsiluni

Umbrella Journal
Spring/Summer 2010

Verse Wisconsin 109

Verse Wisconsin 104

Verse Wisconsin 103

Wrecked World

Your dishpan is quiet as a pond,
all the white ambition
shrunk to mild foam. You

have been away too long,
cups and plates tilt like glaciers.
Man: the toppler of worlds.

You wedge your hand
between what shifts
and slides, methodically

descend, layer by cool
layer, until your fingers crawl
along the smooth bottom,

amphibian.
This is where the knives lie,
mute battleships gone down

on their sides. How wonderful
to find them unaware
and then to pull one, nose

up, and up
until it hangs in the stunned air—
wrecker in a wrecked world.

Were you wrong to dredge it up?—
Is there not meat to cut, and pie?
Wrong to pour warm water

down the long length of its side,
to place it in the company of spoons,
which seem so soft, yet do not lie;

when you hold the knife
before one oblong eye—
concave or convex,

right-side up or upside down—
you see how the blade stretches
from your head to heart,

so much bigger than you thought.