Her Open Window

Fresh steps in snow
reveal her footprints -
as evening paints her
garage a deeper shade
of yellow – as squirrels
leap over steep banks
of snow – a black crow
circles dried toast, she
tossed from the
second
floor
it was her window…

Small red beans attached
to thorns - her bushes
coated with ice -
crack – letting color peak
from winters coat – the
sun disappears behind the
garage - near tulips
fighting to be born
again - near pears resting
on the ground. . .

Her round pedestal table
is cold, naked without
her special table cloth -
hand sewn flowers at the
edge - dried flowers
on display from last
summer. . .

Her pedestal table near
a second floor window -
now cluttered with
sympathy
notes . . .
A wind enters - from
the second
floor
window –
notes tossed
I rush to gather paper -
another gust of wind
enters from her
window. . .


Nancy Duci Denofio
(c)all rights reserved

1954 BENEATH A PULL STRING

1954 Beneath a Pull String

Your thumb curled back,
Lick it…
Lick it…
Turn pages of your bible
while you sit on garments,
pressing them.
Everything is home made -
curtains above a radiator
move in the night. . .
back and forth, back and forth
your apron covers a navy
blue dress – you must be
going to church – but right
now your are stirring homemade
cocoa –
stir it - stir – stir –

Grandmother’s footsteps reach
the landing on the second
floor, her voice calls out
“Grand daughter, it’s time”
little legs bend as hands help
to climb a twisting staircase.

You sat there beneath a pull string
a string that hit your head each
time you sat to join me for my
morning cocoa. On your back
a red sweater, half buttoned,
holes at your elbow, on the
left side.

You twisted in your chair
back and forth, now I know
it was to get comfortable, and
you smiled.

You were never tall but the
string, the one to pull for
light in your kitchen kept
swinging back and forth.

You would connect a long
tube, but now I know it was
a cord to your radio – every
afternoon and night – listening
to church songs.

Often I noticed your ankles
were never thin? Never did
ask you why?

You would connect another
long cord to a toaster, to the
pull string for light and music.
Your curled thumbs flipped toast
from side to side as you open
up to investigate, to see if the
toast was done.

Strange how a cord so
insignificant would be a
memory connecting you and me.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved 2011

GRANDMOTHER'S BLEEDING HEARTS

GRANDMOTHER'S
BLEEDING HEARTS


That damn radio
blasted
day and night with
church songs -
she sang
with the announcer
blessing Jesus for
everything, she had.

Pray tell,
what did she have?
Same old
formica table,
white with red-chipped
paint.

One over sized basin
for a sink -
soiled dishtowels
hanging; drying
draped over one
piece of wood.

A dented white
metal cabinet
half filled with
foggy plastic glasses.

Ceramic cocoa bowls -
cracked.

Every other day
she held this ice
pick in her aging hand’s
defrosting her old
refrigerator – those
knees had to be raw –
knelt on linoleum
day and night
praying - praying
- half crying, saying -
"Thanks, thanks..."


Her slippers worn
her apron dingy -
she never wanted
anything new - God
in heaven
wouldn't like it,
she had to sacrifice,
sacrifice...

I still see the old
black iron pan,
resting on a stove
without a lid;
scolded herself
holding it in place.

Her pantry had a liner -
little frills -
red and white flowers,
cups, saucers
lined perfectly in
space - no one touched
a single item in her
pantry.

If the old door
creaked, or the
calendar shook which
hung from a nail
on her pantry door -
Grandmother appeared
wondering
what it was you took?

A pull string
hung in the middle of
her kitchen – it would
hit her head when she
stood – a string – a
cord connected to her
damn radio
connecting life.

As she aged a hassock
placed at her feet,
lifting them…
her knees too old,
too frail, to hold
her as she prayed.
Those home made
curtains - blew in the
wind.

Grandmother ached
inside, ached to reach
her window sill to
stare out a pane of
glass - old and aging
rapidly.

She never - never
wanted to cry, but
I felt her tears,
her aging heart.

She never gave up
old "Zebra Bread."
a toaster -
she flipped two sides
with her curled thumbs,
testing, to see if
her bread was done.

Every morning, into
her cracked ceramic
bowl she tossed,
dried old Italian Bread,
Dandy Crackers,
Ritz, Graham -
Rice Krispies, Corn
Flakes, and
cookies - from her old
antique cookie jar,
a bear – it smiled at
her – remained in the
same spot on top of her
chipped formica table.

I loved her Cookie Jar -
filled with striped
cookies from "Woolworth’s"
Those cookies made
me happy.

On Tuesdays Grandma
climbed the staircase
to the second floor
holding a brown
paper bag -
I followed.
She filled the old
antique cookie jar
with cookies from
"Woolworth’s."

Patiently I sat near
her pantry door,
waiting – as she
handed me one -
her gold tooth shinned
as she smiled -
I waited, squirming
in the chair, begging
with my eyes for more.

Now I wonder why
Grandma’s pans hung
from nails in her pantry?
I wonder why her
bread box was nailed shut?

The cookie jar, I
remembered most -
Yellow, green with
eyes that stared from
a funny bear.

But those damn church
songs embarrassed me,
her homemade curtains
blowing in the wind -
echoes of how God
would turn our world
around.

I played beneath her
opened kitchen window -
near Grandmother’s
plants -
her bleeding hearts.

Nancy Duci Denofio
(c) all rights reserved
1-14-2011