As a child, I, the Yankee from Jersey,
would visit Betty, my aunt and godmother
in New Orleans, for summers drenched
in mosquitoes and melted popsicles.
Unlike my mother, she let me run
barefoot . . .
–Excerpt from “Backscratcher” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Penniless Press.
Posted in Books, Journals, Poems
Tagged aunt, backrub, childhood, childhood memories, family, family affection, godmother, New Orleans, summer
…Hear the bottle-tops’ metallic burp
seconds before fizz collides with tabasco
on an old man’s tongue. No neighborhood gossip,
only the game in black-and-white from a beery corner,
the bat’s crack outdone by shells splitting,
piled high as Grandma’s worries.
–Excerpt from “Herstel’s” in Jumping Off the Train by Donna Pucciani (Blue Forge Press , Washington 2007). First published in Freshwater.
My grandfather was born on Frenchman
and hung his hopes on a barstool long before
despair sat on a curb behind the tavern.
The screen door was painted green and squeaked.
Crawfish on newsprint, boiled red with pop-eyes
burning black from cayenne, drew him there,
and cold Jax beer in brown bottles, with Satchmo
rupturing an old brown radio in the back room.
–excerpt from “Herstel’s” in Jumping Off the Train by Donna Pucciani (Orchard House Press, Washington 2007). First published in Freshwater.