Donna Pucciani
Sun, Shadow, Moon
I follow my shadow,
one-dimensional sepia,
the sun behind me now.
An urgent solitude propels me ahead,
my gaunt form unrecognizable,
even to me. I step into the evening
with no thought of the past,
of backward roads, the illusory alleyways
of another life branching into night
like arteries, neurons, the properties
of cauliflower brains, the filaments of stars,
the rings of ancient trees,
the veined juices of leaves,
the astonishment of shapes
hidden in the hive of humanity.
I pound myself into flatness.
I exchange my corporeal flesh for something
in the play of light, a werewolf sans gleaming teeth,
as a planetary void calls me into the haven
of dead stars, to emerge as shapeshifter
under the rising moon.
Diminuendo
Diminuendo means “diminishing.”
As a child, I learned this word
from my piano teacher, Sister Paul,
who taught me that the music must soften,
but not all at once: a gradual lessening,
like waves at the beach, the ebb tide
leaving behind an assortment of broken shells.
My body at the time was delicate, agile,
unaware of its gradual death even from birth,
my hands holding a future wide as a world
and tall as the trees I scaled by inches,
rising into a rustling green heaven.
When not climbing, I practiced arpeggios,
studied Latin, read Shakespeare, wrote,
worked for food, and from an airplane’s
belted seat viewed the earth below.
The trees are blooming now,
same as always, leafing out into May.
Sister Paul must be long dead, laid to rest
in her black habit, hands bound with rosaries.
She went before me
in the ethereal fragility of age,
the wrinkling of skin, the pains in the joints,
the mind forgetful, she who taught me
the music of diminishment,
eighth notes on a page spooling out
the quivering echo of myself.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, Journal of Italian Translation, Young Ravens Review, and others. Her seventh and most recent book of poems is EDGES.
I follow my shadow,
one-dimensional sepia,
the sun behind me now.
An urgent solitude propels me ahead,
my gaunt form unrecognizable,
even to me. I step into the evening
with no thought of the past,
of backward roads, the illusory alleyways
of another life branching into night
like arteries, neurons, the properties
of cauliflower brains, the filaments of stars,
the rings of ancient trees,
the veined juices of leaves,
the astonishment of shapes
hidden in the hive of humanity.
I pound myself into flatness.
I exchange my corporeal flesh for something
in the play of light, a werewolf sans gleaming teeth,
as a planetary void calls me into the haven
of dead stars, to emerge as shapeshifter
under the rising moon.
Diminuendo
Diminuendo means “diminishing.”
As a child, I learned this word
from my piano teacher, Sister Paul,
who taught me that the music must soften,
but not all at once: a gradual lessening,
like waves at the beach, the ebb tide
leaving behind an assortment of broken shells.
My body at the time was delicate, agile,
unaware of its gradual death even from birth,
my hands holding a future wide as a world
and tall as the trees I scaled by inches,
rising into a rustling green heaven.
When not climbing, I practiced arpeggios,
studied Latin, read Shakespeare, wrote,
worked for food, and from an airplane’s
belted seat viewed the earth below.
The trees are blooming now,
same as always, leafing out into May.
Sister Paul must be long dead, laid to rest
in her black habit, hands bound with rosaries.
She went before me
in the ethereal fragility of age,
the wrinkling of skin, the pains in the joints,
the mind forgetful, she who taught me
the music of diminishment,
eighth notes on a page spooling out
the quivering echo of myself.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, Journal of Italian Translation, Young Ravens Review, and others. Her seventh and most recent book of poems is EDGES.