STONE STATUES BREATHE

STONE STATUES BREATHE

Half black – half white
his Papa told him so,
his Mama left him long
ago.

Locked between two
bedroom cells, when he
took Juicy Fruit from
some store shelf, then
his Papa tossed the key
away. . .

He carried a gun
tucked inside his jeans
and a jack knife on the
only key he carried near
his heart.

He never thought about
segregation, laughed
about it – since his Papa
was stone white.

They moved away from
where he was born - and
believed his Papa was
some big wig in the Army,
saw him shake the hand of
a President.

But Papa he left too, and he
never saw his uniform - it
vanished.

He never understood how
friends could take and gun
him down?

He was buried with all the
glory of gun shots, flags,
and uniforms; up on a hill
near the Potomac where far
too many white stones placed
on the ground in perfect
lines.

Now he sits and thinks about
the color of his Mama’s skin
which robbed him of his youth.
His Papa gone, and Mama
some where – unfound – he
lives in a one room shack
kind’a like his Mama did when
she gave birth.

It's said he fought from the
inside about the men - about
the black and white - about
all those killed and laid out
on some hill like schools of
fish - and murdered by some
stranger. . .

Then he took in a deep breath
and killed again – dreaming he
too was buried on the mountain
near a river where stone
statues breathe.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

A QUIET PLACE

A QUIET PLACE


When you enter a church
you get this – empty – feeling
as if . . . no one was there
but everyone – is – looking.

(Those wide wooden floors
in my grade school, and doors
opening to the hall, everyone
was looking.)

The altar at church is so
extravagant – God – lives
there inside a golden box near
little booths – a line forms
and nerves happen, the closer
we get to the red drape.

(The drapes Grandmother
made for her parlor are
nothing like these)

We all wondered why God
needed the man behind the
screen – to listen to us – to
hear us when we said, “I’m sorry.”
And at five, did we do anything
too – wrong?

(When I was bad at home, I
ran away to hide behind my
bedroom door.)

It was the Priest behind the
drape with a soft voice. A
Priest who would never let us
see him, and - when he whispered
his breath hit my face.

(When I talked back to mother
she sent me to my room where
I sat and stared out the screened
window.)

Inside the little booth with red
drapes, our fingers would tap and
thumbs twiddle as we sat in the dark
A slight reflection of red from
the drapes, waiting – for our
punishment – how many prayers
would we have to say at the altar?
And, in front of God, waiting in the
golden box.

(I never liked the dark, so Daddy
turned the night light on before I
went to sleep.)

Now, the Priest moved behind
the screen, his face no longer leaned
against it, his breath no longer
touching my cheeks. He now told
us how many prayers we had to
say to be forgiven, in front of
God and all his Saints.

(Grandmother she knelt everyday in
front of her table, at the foot of
her bed, and prayed.)

When it was my turn he told me
to say ten Our Fathers and ten
Hail Marys – the others watched
you finally knelt at the altar,
prayed – prayed – as they waited.

(Mother told me to hurry when
the street light turned on, because
it was getting dark)

We left the quiet place where
no one was – but, everyone was -
looking. Outside, on the steps of
the church we all looked at one
another and laughed – pointed at
the one who prayed the longest.

(But I knew God was not laughing
inside the golden box, like
Grandmother never laughed when
she prayed.)

Nancy Duci Denofio

DREAMS OF PLATO

DREAMS OF PLATO


She was as sweet as an orange blossom
leaping over newly born daisies.
Her feet wrapped in patent leather shoes
and a face as perfect as a moon in autumn;
a product of two fine gems at Plato’s, but
you won’t recall Plato’s or a blast as hot as
the sun changing the color of the blossoms.

Ignorance on the part of a lazy man - one
she married - never loved; now a poor
widow imperfect burns.

But a small delicate flower is leaping.
She pumps a swing with her strong legs
and runs faster then the boys from her
block. Her eyes her grandmothers,
knowing everything as she rocked
back and forth.

That was before fire, robbed her sight -
alone, she sits on a faded pillow.
Alone on her porch, and sinking deeper
into earth.

She heard laughter from the playground
I watched as a tear rolled onto hollow
cheeks as if a diamond sparkles and
she sees.

Her legs run, carrying her body to
the playground, where Plato’s once
stood, and she leaps onto a slide
and her thighs burn.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

MISSING

MISSING

have you seen her –
it’s been since 1989
grown, but police say
she looks like this –
police tell all the
homes on our street
to look for her –

went missing while
she was playing in
her front yard – the
cops gave up – and
new neighbors moved
in – never knew about
the missing girl back
in 1989 –

parents let their children
play in their front yard
feel safe in the
neighborhood – felt
safe until another child
fitting the same description
disappeared last week –

in a few years she too
will be history – until
another child brings her
back to life.

Nancy Duci Denofio

BLIND FISTS CRY OUT

Blind Fists Cry Out

A stranger wraps his arms about
her waist; cold shivers run up and
down her spine -

"They will save him," she whispered,
"Experts do this all the time."

She heard sea gulls squawking,
and legs splashing – faint voices
mumbling.

She screamed, "I want to know!"
She flung her arms above her head
as if they had eyes - she whispered,
"Is he alive?"

She stood to run, tripped, and fell.
Sea shells cut apart her legs -
she grabbed sand - tightly
squeezed her fist’s and cried.

"Are you the mother?"
A stranger’s voice. . .

She reached to feel a face.

"Tell me – what . . . does he look
like - Is he cold? Is he warm
or - is he blue?”

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
from working memoir "Blind Fists Cry Out."