UNKNOWN TERRITORY

UNKNOWN TERRITORY


A faint moon lights your face -
although some say you vanished
in a storm -

Still I see your eyes as you
stare into mine - passion - our
appetite for love -

not been taken in spite
of certain death – no one sees
as we do.

Your face will never leave –
your face brings me back to
our last day – waves spill
over a rocky shore – you roll
me over and over again on
sand until our body is coated
and I embrace you – kiss your
lips, as clean as water – falls

You knew I would not let you
go - I held you – whispered
in your ear, kissed your ear
lobe - but a force stronger
pulled you from me.

I recall our hands slipping
and at last our touch of skin
falling from one another’s
reach to a place where we
roll together in sand. . .

Distance make no mention
of love waiting on the other
side, no matter theories are
words on paper – love is
real –

Your face – those prominent
features – countless stars
we tried to find the constellations
or even more momentous
a new planet –

We found our own – a sea at
moonlight innumerable stars
countless constellations, unknown
territory – we are in ecstasy –
Your face an instrument of
life after death - keeping
me here – will we ever leave?


Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

I CRIED TO DREAM AGAIN

I CRIED TO DREAM AGAIN


I cried to dream again -
You were there
I saw you in my dream
I could touch you, hear you,
make you smile - then
you told me you could not
stay, I held your hand –
you could not take me
with you.

I cried to dream again,
I buried my head into
my feather pillow –
whispered - dream - dream...
but, nothing happened.
I continued to whisper -
dream – I want to see you
one more time – one second

Your eyes stared into mine,
You turned away, as your
slender legs walked quickly
not held up by strong arms –
as I watched you I knew
I would never see you here
again –

You turned to wave good
bye – you were with me in
my dream, here – in this
room - you were
looking at me,
staring at me - laughing.
So I whispered to feathers
between cotton, as tears
covered a pillow.

I cried to dream again
you were no longer sick
you were a picture
stored in black and white.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

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