Aging Bundles of Debris

Seven... locked inside a storm cellar
where bulbs hang to dry in damp
darkness of night. Where,
sleds are posed for winter play - long
piles of wood where Mama said,
“Mice live.”

I reach to find a glove grandmother
used in her garden, stiff from yellow
paint.

Light enters near an oval window
covered in last years paper and then,
saran wrap taped to studded walls.
It’s beyond the door where steps
of cement lead up to reach outside.

Tiny pieces of cement catch between
my toes, tickle bare feet. Spider webs
hang near the light switch, so I don’t
touch… silver strands of silk - still -
until the bulb heats and moves the web…

I am stranded here with aging bundles
of debris -
I see it now! Feel it now. . .
Locked down in a storm cellar -
a play spot… a hide out,
a storage room for grandmother’s vegetables…
a shed for tools, a place where
mama kept cardboard boxes filled
with dolls, tricycles, hanging by a
rope, above my head…

I remember the cold, and shiver run
up and down my arms – even in summer.
I remember fear, when someone caught
me alone in the storm cellar -
where children never played.

Nancy Duci Denofio
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Tears of Dirt

A field of vision
a stone fits into a
fist of a child.

Close to ground
a stone is rubbed
against a child’s
lips, near a tongue
as she creeps near
bushes with thorns.

A child knows not
about a thorn, a
spider in its’ web
of sharp sticks
in green grass –

a shadow - made
a child cry when
lost - inside a garden
no way out.

a body rocks back
and forth on knees
to reach a place to
sit –

nothing in a garden
made a child smile,
no one to feed her,
hand a bottle.

falling onto
knees - rocking
back and forth
until asleep.

On top of
prickly pines
sleeping while
a world disappears

Three years old
at a crossroad
she chooses to sleep
in the center of nothing

on dirt - pebbles
caught between naked
toes - dirt lines
tiny finger nails

Awake, she rubs her
face - streaks of dirt
now dirt of tears...
She rocks back and forth

her head falls forward
her body limp -
falls a few feet from
stone -

never found her way
home.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

GRAVEYARD

Life comes to a close
at night as a shovel digs
deep into the earth –
lifting dirt to make a
place for you to live.

At night - I hear a
shovel as sound surrounds
me – my body shivers,
and sweat pours from skin –
moistens a night gown. . .

It is clear now – as if night
were day – a hole deep
a man jumps into its’ emptiness
another man tosses a different
shovel which levels the earth.

The land, flat – sides high.
Bats fly from tree to tree -
ghosts surround men
digging a space for another
friend.

I glance toward the bench
near the oldest part of the
graveyard. And you sit with
your legs crossed, and boots
up to your knees – your hair
has grown - your nails
painted perfectly.

Are you wondering who is
next - or did you know first?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

City Street

Hitching posts line
cobblestone streets.
Awnings open to shade
a plate glass window,
close to brick.
Iron seems to float
in air, near entrances -
proprietors lean
against brick facades.
City roads twist, and turn
between blooms on
a dogwood tree.

At Center Street a
wooden box, reads
deposit trash.

A horse, upset -
swings a wooden wagon
upside down.
Youths in knickers,
run to fetch
fruit, bouncing on
uneven ground...
A proprietor stares
as the horse defecates
in front of his property –
he knows the summer
heat will keep his store
closed until men who
carry iron shovels, and
a pail, clear the air:
it’s a quiet day.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Touch the Sunlight

thirteen…

she followed him
to the shade…
they embrace
laying in
overgrown weeds

he teaches her
to French kiss
by touching
tongues…
rubbing them
together
she feels cold
lonely
within the darkness
of a shadow
feels her heartbeat
strong quivering
inside her belly

thirteen…
heard about boys
in the ninth
grade
heard about
parties,
sex.
now
she wanted to run. . .
run, be twelve again

slipping her
tender flesh
across damp
green grass
to touch the sunlight.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

Drinking Beer On The Sofa Bed


Stretched out
drinking beer
on a sofa bed -
one after one
until the world
divides.
Who are you
changing
in front of my eyes?
A ordinary man -
now evil
lurks
within his eyes.
Sharing a beer
I never knew
this man robbed
youth . . .
Who are you
stretched out
in front of me;
blue eyes
stained red -
empty bottles
around a sofa bed.

Nancy Duci Denofio

Her Footprints

Fresh snow on steps
reveal her footprints -
evening has painted
the garage, yellow
squirrels leap over
steep banks of snow
a black crow circles
dried toast, she tossed
from the second floor…

small red beans attached
to thorns coated in ice
break as the sun
disappears dripping in
twilight.

Her round pedestal table
is cold, naked without
her cloth and dried
flowers, cluttered with
sympathy notes –
the wind picks up
and the notes scatter.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

A Smile Lines Your Face

At night - trapped
space - I lay beside
you, and turn to
lift my head
to watch you as you
sleep.

Black hair - thinner now,
your beard rough, and
your eyes closed.

Peacefulness surrounds
me as your eyes flutter;
probably dreaming.
A smile lines your face.

My eyes close -
I know I am safe.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Candle Light

rain,
cry on my window pane
lonely eyes search past a moon
dreaming of you -
waiting for your return.

strangers walk by in black rain coats
no one glances toward my window - pane
no one searches for my face - leaning
on a pane - of glass

I light a candle, place it in the window
it shall burn all through the night
a sign
a welcome home -
perhaps tonight?

If not -
I have other candles which to light

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Plate of Bone China

The plate resting near
our kitchen sink became
her missile, as her hand
gripped bone china –
bone china from her
mother’s china closet;
what power – behind her
left hand with a twist
in her wrist she made
bone china fly – red roses
with delicate leaves flew
into thin air.

Bone china barely missed
his head and slams into
a wall covered in wanes
coating, above our radiator
near a box of Kleenex, and
a large magnifying glass: you
see, she hardly saw what she
was aiming at and if she
missed. . . it was a glass
framed clock, and her
favorite plant; a hanging
spider. Above the radiator,
bone china split into
smithereens – a few feet
from our green parakeet
hanging upside down,
clinging to a wire cage.

Our birds head bobbing
upside down. She never
tweeted on those days,
when mother did – but all
in all we knew, five mintues
would pass and mother
would be singing a Frank
Sinatra tune: Tweety now
on her swing, and I come
from behind my bedroom
door. In the fifties, it was
a mood swing..

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

She Focused on His Lip's

His pointer finger
twisted around the
trigger of his gun
then tucked into
a pocket of his
three piece suit.

The woman stared,
and focused on a
cherry he bit
between his lip's.

Both rolled in
grass.

Both disappeared -
he left his gun.

Nancy Duci Denofio
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