Dolor squeezes through the cracks
of memory–the career that never was,
the shock of suicide. In the blur
of work, food, sleep, we sigh…
–Excerpt from “Recollected” in Donna Pucciani, A Light Dusting of Breath (Chicago: Virtual Artists Collective, 2016).
A pair of framed pictures
lurks on the bathroom walls,
a shred of elegance…
–From “Two Photographs” by Donna Pucciani.
First published in All Roads Lead You Home.
The storm blew in from the west
as predicted, a little before midnight,
not long after a blue moon
lit the sky…
–From “Ghost Weather” by Donna Pucciani.
First published in Chiron Review.
Before dawn, we drop the cousins
at the airport. In a few hours,
they will be reveling in the spray
of Niagara, babbling in Italian…
–From “The Going” by Donna Pucciani
First published in Plainsongs.
Your oxygen tank follows you
like a stray cat
since the heat of October
rose in the mountain air
that you couldn’t get enough of….
From “For Tony in Italy” by Donna Pucciani.
First published in Clark Street Review.
A small black bowl on a tortoise-shell stem
curves in the shape of his carpenter’s hands.
Yesterday I thought of him…
–From “Pipe, Figs” by Donna Pucciani.
The gods were still drunk
from Saturday night. They
spilled their revelry
in the dawn of Umbria…
–From “Quake” by Donna Pucciani.
First published in Encore 2016.
The clocks banish daytime
for another hour Floriana
boils cabbage and potatoes
for tonight’s dinner.
No internet here in the old
–From “Time Change, Capodarco” by Donna Pucciani.
First published in Peacock Journal.
…That first night, in love
with the Florentine darkness,
we flung open the shutters . . .
–From “The Arno by Night” by Donna Pucciani.
First published in Turtle Island Quarterly.
Poised above the columns of St. Peter’s,
their marbled sanctity observes
the squawking gulls circling for food
and finding none…
–From “Bernini’s Saints” by Donna Pucciani.
First published in Sanskrit Literary Arts Review.
…to chase romance in seedy hotels
we are too old for now, to buy apples
and cheese from the market, to sit…
–From “Going to Rome” by Donna Pucciani.
First published in Roanoke Review.