Jane Zingale


The white square of his clerical collar scowls. His eyelids quiver.

I stand firm and silent after my confession.

His jaw stiffens; taut lips hug his dentures, the corners of his grimace twitch.

I fear his judgment.

He prepares to speak; his stale breath sickens me.

The radiator in the vestry gurgles heat while anguish chills my bones.

His clenched hands squeeze and release.

The pupils of my eyes shrink to tiny pinpoints as I conjure up a thunderbolt shooting straight into his shaved Adam’s apple. With a flash it shuts down his vocal cords. I’ve rendered him speechless for now. 



My shoes stand in numerous places around my apartment.

They line up toe-to-toe or nestle into the arch of the other.

Either way they are empty ready to mobilize.



She thinks of herself as a girl, twelve years of age or so. Her mind flutters from one thought to another when she discusses situations of interest to herelf and the other members of her mind. She walks and talks in animated fashion, speaking out loud with her hands. Her hips, like liquid mercury, slide from side to side as she moves splayfooted down the path. 




JANE ZINGALE is an artist, writer and yoga instructor. She taught performance techniques at the Dutch Institute of Art in Amsterdam, NL and the Ecole Nationale des Beaux-arts Lyon, FR. She’s performed in Los Angeles at the Getty, The Reina Sophia Museum Madrid, Spain, The LA County Museum, CA, MOMA in NY, The Pompidou, Paris FR and The Museum of Modern Art Warsaw.  Publications— Hamilton Stone Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Bath Flash Fiction.