came blundering in today
through rain-battered sills,
shutters banging in the violet night,
and the fists of half-closed clouds
pounding the windows . . .
–Excerpt from “Dawn” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Stride Magazine.
Last night, when rain stroked
the scarred earth, entering the cracks
with small invasive hands,
and clouds sang the cantos
of momentary loss, shaking the trees,
we lay in our beds breathless,
feeling relief creep through our bodies
feet first . . .
–excerpt from “Storm after Drought” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective/purple flag, 2015). First published in After Hours.
“The devil’s beating his wife,” mother drawls,
leaning over the rain-dusted windowsill
when yellow sun slices silver
and a breeze blows sudden as a barroom brawl . . .
–excerpt from “One Kind of Rain” in Jumping Off the Train by Donna Pucciani (Orchard House Press, Washington 2007). First published in Coffee House.
What river can wash us clean, to the essence?
Bone, flesh, hair, sweat, consciousness,
from crying infant to bent elder, are all we have.
Only death peels us back, layer by layer, to the core,
just like the cat, whose ninth life claims her
at the garden gate, where she has crept,
scented like rain.
–excerpt from “Purification,” in To Sip Darjeeling at Dawn by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective 2011).