. . . During the long summer days,
the language of the sun
illuminates the human species,
sparked again in love affairs, birthing pains,
the lifelong counting of money,
the last flight of the sparrow.
–Excerpt from “How Language Lives” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016).
Declension is a harsh word for nouns
that sleep in a blue bay, or verbs that conjugate
in the lemon trees. But —
–Excerpt from “Learning Italian” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Newport Review.
The words were here once.
They have flown miles away,
years into the future,
back into the mouths of many nights,
a deserted shore . . .
–Excerpt from “Losing the Words” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago 2013). First published in International Poetry Review; Prairie Winds; Iodine.
are clover in a meadow,
are rocks, sedentary
as granite giants,
are dancers, race car drivers,
are nocturnal animals
clinging to each other upside down,
copulating like bats.
–excerpt from “Words” in To Sip Darjeeling at Dawn by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago 2011). First published in Roanoke Review.