Tag Archives: death

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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Risk

. . . To live is to die

below the safety of a gray sky,

hovering, tentative, uncertain . . .

–Excerpt from “Risk” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Journal of the American Medical Association.

Teachers

. . . Each mentor’s mortality came to visit

and refused to leave. Old music teachers,

philosophy profs, a poet-friend,

died of cancer, dementia, flu,

a windmill of maladies that lifted them

into the air, then dropped them

unceremoniously into death.

–excerpt from “Teachers” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag Press, 2014). First published in America.

Going to Paris

One day in the unforgotten future,

I will lie down on my bed alone

and commend my soul to God,

whose existence I have doubted

ever since I can remember.

I will close my eyes and wait for the light. . .

–excerpt from “Going to Paris” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective/purple flag, 2015). First published in Urthona Magazine.

Mortality

. . . I am the profound humidity,

you the darkened sky. Together we

will provoke the purpleclouds

to flash gold, a momentary

epigram for us.

We discuss this over coffee.

I watch the physic of your breath,

the geography of your face . . .

–excerpt from “Mortality” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective/purple flag, 2015). First published in Home Planet News.

Conjecture

What if sun and moon

were to collide in space,

spawning sparks of gold and silver,

little gods and goddesses falling to earth

to make everything right?

–excerpt from “Conjecture” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective/purple flag, 2015). First published in Amoskeag.

Solstice

The shortest day of the year

genuflects on snow-dusted sidewalks,

its frozen fingers folded in prayer,

its head bowed in the overwhelming darkness

beyond the fringes of dead leaves

and the inaudible sighs of the moon.

This day wants to remember lilacs…

–Excerpt from “Solstice” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, 2013). Published in Illuminations and The Old Red Kimono.