Splinter

From the woodpile you came to me . . . .

Buried deep in my index finger,
a cantor in the form of a needle
sings a miniscule elegy to itself,
a tiny song of reckoning.

–excerpt from “Splinter” in To Dip Darjeeling at Dawn by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago 2011). First published in Poesia.

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