ONE HUNDRED QUESTIONS - NINETEEN SIXTY FIVE

ONE HUNDRED QUESTIONS
NINETEEN SIXTY FIVE


Remember when a smile
lit up your face?
When we passed in the hall
back in nineteen sixty five?

Bob Dylan was telling us
who we were –
what to do –
if we didn’t listen
we would all be dead

We sang, holding hands
as we pretended to be
Sonny and Cher –
“You’ve Got Me Babe.”

Remember me hitch hiking
in front of RPI after spending
money to watch you instead
of Sonny and Cher –

Rocky and I were seating in
the balcony, front row, as I
peered through binoculars
watching you, listening to
“I’ve Got You Babe. . .”

No plans to get home
knowing your father would
be waiting out front of RPI
sitting behind the wheel of
his Cutlass – you weren’t
old enough to drive

It was a winter day when you
received your permit, drove
down to Avenue A, only
sixteen – it was daylight and
you had this old beaten up car

You used the front door –
anyone new, used the front door
then you would shake hands
with the family as they left to
listen in the kitchen

We sat side by side on a red
velvet couch – soon to be given
to my uncle in California –
I was comfortable, rocking in
our rocker from Vermont

Spent hours asking questions
I interviewed you for the first
time -
“Seventeen Magazine.”

One hundred questions
I asked –
One hundred answers
you told me –
Learning you desires
what – really - turned you on
James Bond
Double 07
and that double breasted
navy coat
you found in the attic
you had to say girls with
blue eyes and dark hair –
with that smile. . .

Mother listened from
the kitchen – we lived in
a city flat, called Goose
Hill – but, Schenecatdy
had nicknames for
neighborhoods, and boys,
men – they all had nick
names –

As I continued asking you
questions, I continued to
rock back and forth – not
knowing this would be the
first interview –

Presidential candidates
would take your place on
different chairs.
But, that was nineteen
sixty five – thirty years
before I dared to ask big
shots – questions about
their thoughts –
even one had more then
one hundred questions. . .

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
@2011

TIN BUCKETS

Tin Buckets


Mother - today near our yellow
garage I leaned against old
yellow chipped paint, and
instead of flicking paint with
my finger - I stared at our old
pear tree

crying as if rain coated fur
coats – pears strewn about
the lawn – ants and worms
living inside
no one saving bruised fruit
or has time to cut away a
rotten spot – as Grandma.

Are you with me Grandma?

You remember Grandma
took care of bruised fruit -
tossed scraps from her second
floor window - of our city flat,
to feed blackbirds.

Those maple trees - you have to
remember?
Growing back home, in your home
town – “Middle,” Mother said –
always, Mother said, “Middle,”
not Middle Granville its' name -
a place near the Vermont border -

Mother – you were proud of those
maple trees – crying like pears on
my lawn, in my home town - proud
when you pointed to thin tin
buckets – buckets attached to
mighty strong trunks -
tin buckets filled with maple syrup -

Mother, I know you can see me.

I bet all those trees with buckets
were glad to see you when you
finally came home? I cried when you
left our home.

You told me you climbed those mighty
limbs of the maple -
you tied tin to their trunks –
you would hide beneath a single tree
as if a piece of scorned fruit -
well, you did have far too many
siblings to hide from.

Mother, you are not there - on the crest
gazing over rusted train tracks - tracks
twisting around raised stones – tracks
near your brother’s bar – you’re not
laying near trees crying into buckets
or hiding from your siblings -

You see mother - now you can fly

yet, resting in peace – never your
style - I do enjoy you listening when I
talk out loud – you see – I know you
are right here! You told me so.

Remember, “I'll haunt you till the
day you die,” Mother, and you laughed -
I believe you protect us - our entire
family.

Remember when you turned all the
fans on, and tears ran down our wall –
when pencils were tossed – pictures
fell – and now you’re moving glasses.

I know you hear me – you hear me when
I talk. Even my husband, he believes
since you touched his face. I'm
pleased.

Mother, you are watching me –

You see me, hear me, listen to all
of my wishes, stories, and see my tears.
And you answer in your own Irish way -
we believe you.

That day we placed a wreath at your
grave – knee deep in snow, we noticed
snow inside tin buckets –
Did you notice too?

We talked about the other side, you
told me about my birth – and all those
dead people coming back – I knew
everything by heart. So we talked as
I grew – and I believed – we talked
when you were dying, and I believed

You’re right here watching me as I
tell others!

But why not touch my face?

Mother, you can fly over our pear
tree and watch scraps of food fed
to black birds, touch faces in
the night - guide us in daylight.

So fly Mother, fly near the border
where slate resembles slabs of
fudge – where rocks fall into streams,
where maples do cry into buckets,
and your talking with all your friends
now - resting on the crest.

Fly – Fly – guide us all with your
light.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved
1/6/2011 copyright

BUTTERCUP

Buttercup


You love me, you love me not -
You love me - I could tell
by the color of your skin, when
you kissed the buttercup, and
your lips moistened by your
tongue.

You held the buttercup
with two fingers,
twirled it back and forth,
side to side - ever so slowly.
You never spoke to me
you stared into my eyes
as if you could
read them.

You smiled at me, then pursed
your lips, blew a bit of air in
my direction as petals flew
gently touching my chin.
Squirming, knowing not how
long I could take - stillness.

My own lips moist.
My body aches
to be the buttercup
you once held.