Dust

. . . Books, clothing, seaside

souvenirs, and blankets

smelling of the sickbed

huddle in black plastic bags

at the curbside like strange

animals awaiting rescue.

Every hour the living

flee to the kitchen for tea.

–Excerpt from “Dust” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Ambit.

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A Trinity

Three friends of mine

got chemotherapy today. Their cancers

emerged in vital organs last spring

like psychedelic mushrooms visible

only on magical screens aglow

in the dark of diagnostic imaging.

–Excerpt from “A Trinity” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Urthona Magazine.

Other Houses, Other Rooms

Little doors are opening

in my past houses

all over America —

Jersey, the Bronx, a rambling

rental in Ohio, a brick

bungalow west of Chicago.

Other people live there now,

walk from room to room . . .

–Excerpt from “Other Houses, Other Rooms” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Summerset Review.

Something to Hold

Humans silhouetted

in yellow squares

of window-lit offices

and row houses

will buy a bit of lace today,

a book, a loaf, some little game,

to console themselves . . .

–Excerpt from “Something to Hold” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Clark Street Review.

Blackbird

. . . That day in the garden we heard

a bell-throated birdsong bounding

through the courtyard from St. Thomas’ Church,

a song so sharp it obliterated even the groan

of his wheelchair inching down the graveled path .

–Excerpt from “Blackbird” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Wichita Falls Literary and Arts Review.

Espresso

You wait for me

before sun-up,

black orchid blooming

in a small white cup,

bittersweet tongue

tasting mine.

–Excerpt from “Espresso” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Italian Americana.

Always

. . . But what is there

to be sad about? The moon

will wax orange, the trees

glow golden, and berries

pop their crimson heads out

for one last look before snow.

–Excerpt from “Always” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016).