Incremental

. . . The minutes become years,

the years our lives, the flakes snow-banks . . .

–excerpt from “Incremental” in EDGES by Donna Pucciani. First published in Homestead Review.

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Incremental

I’d wonder, as I do now,

how millions of miniscule drops

can freeze in a cloud

and fall from the sky

to accumulate at my feet,

like words in books . . .

–excerpt from “Incremental” in EDGES by Donna Pucciani. First published in Homestead Review.

Incremental

Snow descends

by thousands of flakes per second,

random as thoughts, sawdust on a pub floor,

or gnats in summer along the canal.

–Excerpt from “Incremental” inĀ  EDGES by Donna Pucciani. First published in Homestead Review.

 

Nunc Dimittis

. . . the old priest, my uncle, speaks Italian.

I struggle to understand. For a moment,

when he says in English, I love you,

I almost believe in God.

–excerpt from “Nunc Dimittis” in Ghost Garden by Donna Pucciani. First published in Iodine Literary Journal.

Making His Rounds

Padre Ernesto’s sock-and-sandaled feet

pad through corridors to the beds of the sick.

No miracles happen . . .

–excerpt from “Making His Rounds” in Ghost Garden by Donna Pucciani. First published in Christianity and Literature.

Phoning Pasquale

. . . I begin, Buona sera. Mi chiamo . . . .

I wrote my script on an old envelope.

Si’, si’, booms the voice . . . .

–excerpt from “Phoning Pasquale” in Ghost Garden by Donna Pucciani. First published in Wichita Falls Literary and Art Review.

In the Library

. . . My hunger for family requires that I map

their galaxy, with a ruler to keep the stars

straight in their orbits, and dark ink with a fine nib . . .

–excerpt from “In the Library” in Ghost Garden by Donna Pucciani. First published in Seems.