. . . 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).
Just above the Cyclops Restaurant,
up stone steps smelling of eucalyptus,
broods the bookstore, breathing the decay
of tarnished roses pasted under the noon rain.
Inside, life is made of words . . .
–Excerpt from “Booksellers, Taormina” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Gradiva.
I have swallowed the seed of languages.
It grows in me like the tree
my mother promised me
when I swallowed the pips
in the orange juice.
Little words sprout like aliens . . .
–excerpt from “Languages” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag Press, 2014). First published in North Dakota Quarterly.
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.