Donna Pucciani
Morning Walk
Entire days used to unroll
like carpets, moving and magical,
on the morning’s walk.
Whether in darkest snow
or the season of day lilies,
my own swift pace
would welcome me
and the dawn itself,
the possibilities spread before us
in the moon’s waning smile,
the sun’s feathers darting
among the maples.
A squirrel pauses on a branch,
holding a nut with nearly-human hands.
The grosbeak’s rosy breast
mirrors the redbud trees,
or patches of ice gleam
starlight. Is this the cure
for all loneliness? Or does
delight in grass, snow and cloud
only sharpen the sadness of years?
Friends disappear.
Knees no longer bend as designed.
Think of all the books unread,
the lost touch of a hand.
Does anything matter, or nothing?
Eyesight, breath, movement
gaze back in the eye of the sparrow
before she flits to the mulberry bush,
searching for seed.
In a moment, she will no longer
be there, leaving the twigs behind,
trembling.
Demise
She lies amid the crumpled sheets,
her body wasted, her hands
birdlike claws. I have sent pralines,
knowing that a taste for sweetness
comes near the end.
Chicago to Akron, we talk on the telephone,
but even a few words fatigue her.
We used to joke that we were Tuscan princesses.
She’d even bought twin tiaras
with rhinestones set in plastic.
A god somewhere has planned this suffering,
mapped out the stages of her malaise,
then got distracted with starvation and wars,
forgetting my friend who has been waiting
to slip away for quite some time.
The husband and daughter
hover at the bedside, wondering how long.
An internet spark sends the news.
My friend will be buried this week,
or burned on the pyre of ritual.
I haven’t the courage to ask which.
Animals die without protest,
without memory, devoid of desire,
accepting instinctively that flesh decays
in the natural order of things.
Stars shine even after they cease to exist.
We humans weep, rend garments,
rebel against the rot.
I donate to a canine shelter in memory
of her and the two long-haired Dachsunds
that waddled beside her in life
and preceded her into the great heartland of sky.
At the gates, they will sniff her transparent ankles.
Then, recognizing her scent, they will lick
her ethereal face, their neatly-trimmed tails
wagging her into heaven.
Flute, Years Later
I foolishly volunteered
to play flute for the Sunday service
in a group reminiscent
of a junior high school band.
The hymns are exquisite, tortured
by my shrill descants in the high octave
between heaven and hell. Am I better off
mute, or absent?
The devotional tunes, their holy words
buttressed by a magnificent organ
and the well-meant syllables of the faithful,
struggle towards paradise.
I bark and wheeze, the memory
of Mozart hidden somewhere
in the open holes that now leak from
dehydrated pads protesting the stasis of years.
The shining silver song of youth
has hidden far too long in its plush-lined
case, its three-segment body like a giant
mythic insect wanting to fly
but no longer able. Salvation now emerges
in the humility of small rituals, forgotten
fingerings, lips pursed to kiss
but only quivering.
After rehearsal, I take apart the metal tube,
old friend, and replace it in its box.
I catch in the mirror my tired cheeks,
my tarnished mouth.
Morning Walk
Entire days used to unroll
like carpets, moving and magical,
on the morning’s walk.
Whether in darkest snow
or the season of day lilies,
my own swift pace
would welcome me
and the dawn itself,
the possibilities spread before us
in the moon’s waning smile,
the sun’s feathers darting
among the maples.
A squirrel pauses on a branch,
holding a nut with nearly-human hands.
The grosbeak’s rosy breast
mirrors the redbud trees,
or patches of ice gleam
starlight. Is this the cure
for all loneliness? Or does
delight in grass, snow and cloud
only sharpen the sadness of years?
Friends disappear.
Knees no longer bend as designed.
Think of all the books unread,
the lost touch of a hand.
Does anything matter, or nothing?
Eyesight, breath, movement
gaze back in the eye of the sparrow
before she flits to the mulberry bush,
searching for seed.
In a moment, she will no longer
be there, leaving the twigs behind,
trembling.
Demise
She lies amid the crumpled sheets,
her body wasted, her hands
birdlike claws. I have sent pralines,
knowing that a taste for sweetness
comes near the end.
Chicago to Akron, we talk on the telephone,
but even a few words fatigue her.
We used to joke that we were Tuscan princesses.
She’d even bought twin tiaras
with rhinestones set in plastic.
A god somewhere has planned this suffering,
mapped out the stages of her malaise,
then got distracted with starvation and wars,
forgetting my friend who has been waiting
to slip away for quite some time.
The husband and daughter
hover at the bedside, wondering how long.
An internet spark sends the news.
My friend will be buried this week,
or burned on the pyre of ritual.
I haven’t the courage to ask which.
Animals die without protest,
without memory, devoid of desire,
accepting instinctively that flesh decays
in the natural order of things.
Stars shine even after they cease to exist.
We humans weep, rend garments,
rebel against the rot.
I donate to a canine shelter in memory
of her and the two long-haired Dachsunds
that waddled beside her in life
and preceded her into the great heartland of sky.
At the gates, they will sniff her transparent ankles.
Then, recognizing her scent, they will lick
her ethereal face, their neatly-trimmed tails
wagging her into heaven.
Flute, Years Later
I foolishly volunteered
to play flute for the Sunday service
in a group reminiscent
of a junior high school band.
The hymns are exquisite, tortured
by my shrill descants in the high octave
between heaven and hell. Am I better off
mute, or absent?
The devotional tunes, their holy words
buttressed by a magnificent organ
and the well-meant syllables of the faithful,
struggle towards paradise.
I bark and wheeze, the memory
of Mozart hidden somewhere
in the open holes that now leak from
dehydrated pads protesting the stasis of years.
The shining silver song of youth
has hidden far too long in its plush-lined
case, its three-segment body like a giant
mythic insect wanting to fly
but no longer able. Salvation now emerges
in the humility of small rituals, forgotten
fingerings, lips pursed to kiss
but only quivering.
After rehearsal, I take apart the metal tube,
old friend, and replace it in its box.
I catch in the mirror my tired cheeks,
my tarnished mouth.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in such diverse journals as Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, Acumen, The Pedestal, and Journal of Italian Translation. Her seventh and most recent book of poetry is EDGES.