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

ROAD to MIDDLE

ROAD TO MIDDLE

On our way to “Middle” -
near the border of Vermont,
mother - is buried - in “Middle.”

The County Fair is over,
land – bare; I begged for
cotton candy - there.

A one - room schoolhouse
need of fixing – missing
wood, broken windows,
brick bruised. You
can hear echoes of children.

Down the road across
a creek, beyond sliced
slabs of slate: A vintage
bar still living, patrons still
sitting on the same broken
down porch.

Past the bar, we take a
sharp right, twisting like
a slippery creek – a gentle
rain slips down slate – hard
rain – a creek grows
moreover, roads closed.

We pass tiny huts with
many children – half clothed -
playing near a rusted car
tires – gone. . .
Clothes of brown hang
from trees.
Mother called them guilders.

A sharp right - I remember –
as if, it was today. . .
fear inside while mother
talked about bad men
Inside massive gates
and towers; men
hold big guns – a giant
building with tiny windows
letting in little sun. . .
And, the closer we get the
larger it grows - more fear
as my feet, kick the back of
the front seat and I feel
my own heart beat. . .

Back, when I leaned my
head onto the window of our
car, pressed my nose against
glass – eyes wide – a tear,
inside – praying to myself –
I will never, ever be bad.

Today, we pass the massive
prison, filled with bad men,
those who murdered kept
inside while men still stand
in towers holding guns.

Behind the prison little
houses where guards sleep
many empty – then visitors
parking lot – filled.

Still we twist and turn as
a creek follows to our left –
houses hidden behind
maple trees – holding buckets
their spine aches - giant barns –
fewer cows roam.

Another sharp left – up a
Hill - Saint Mary’s Catholic
Church. At five – I marched
down the Aisle as a miniature
bride as my parent’s did
so long ago.

Mother said, “Keep those
white patent leathers clean,
and lift your dress – there is
mud around these parts.”

Recalling the aisle, when
I walked front and center
down a red carpet – how
different that would be today.

Mother lays sleeping -
told me inside a bronze
coffin.
Nothing changes in
“Middle” – she was one
of seventeen children,
she – the first girl to die,
today only two survive.

We cross the river with
no name – pass my
mother’s best friends
home across from the
green grocery store
- close to the rivers
edge.

We pass my Aunt’s
house next door to my
Uncle PJ’s Bar – her home
built before the Civil
War – here trees have
grown around head
stones, as if the spirit
climbed trees – looked
in at me, when I was
trying hard to sleep.

Down the road a bit
to the left, my mother’s
home it was once
there sitting high on
a hill – a giant porch
as a child – a stair
way - we climbed and
slid down, when no one
was around -

A hill where I once
played - tumbled,
rolled, pushed on a sled

behind mother’s home
where she learned to
milk a cow.
Where she played
baseball with ten brothers
– where mountains of
Vermont stood close
in the distance –
a short walk where she
would stay – this day.

Now a left, on a dirt
road – approaching a
black gate – locked – we
step around tree trunks -
climb a slight hill –
we pass grandmother’s
stone – grandfather’s –
where my older brother
sleeps at the foot of his
grave.

I make the sign of the cross.
I read - to myself – all those
dead members of my family
resting near Vermont.

A stone path gets shorter as
land fills up with those who
lay beneath ground –
stretching beyond my view
of the mountains.

I see a heart shaped stone
and read the Irish Prayer –
my father’s name,
who is not there.

I stare – I turn – away. . .
talk in soft sounds
alone on a stone path. . .
no one hears, I never stay
to pray at her grave – but
talk to her as my feet
carry me from stone to
stone, so many belong in
this small town.

I gaze up at the mountain,
smile – I know she is
here – today – with me
nevertheless, mother still
travels in
her spirit world –
mother still sees me,
warns me of a rising creek -
listens when I speak.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

NO ONE CAME TO VISIT

NO ONE CAME TO VISIT


no one came with flowers
no one came with pink
balloons or candy
no one brought pink dresses
to fit a new born.

Mother, she knew.

No one believed
or wanted to see a child
who entered this world
a little over a pound -
medical men told her,
“She won’t survive the
night.”

Mother, she knew -

she knew when two men
visited
knew only one – but
knew of the other
one man sat to her right
one man to her left.

These visitors did not
bring balloons or candy
or a pink dress for their
new grand daughter –
a baby who would fit into
their palm -

a baby with tubes in
temples –
a body to small and
needles too large

both men died before
the birth of her child

her father spoke to her,
her father in law
listened. . .

“Don’t worry she will
survive and make you
proud.”

Medical men entered
her room and mother
smiled.
Medical men warned
her – “Babies this small
do not survive.” –

Mother, she knew.

Daddy entered her room
she smiled.
told him their little girl
would survive
he pulled a chair up to her
bed, held her hand, and
listened. . .

He probably smiled back
he must have warned her
to face the truth -
mother, stubborn,
she believed.

A few days passed,
the medical men told her
again –
a week went by, and she
smiled -
two weeks, the medical
men stopped talking of
death –

Mother peered through
glass at her baby –
lying inside a metal box –
inside with tubes and monitors
with no one to touch a child’s
grey skin.

She watched as a chest
was forced to expand
she prayed to herself –
she waved good bye -
thanking the Medical men –
telling them she would be back

every day – to watch a child
who barely opened her eyes.

There was no touching,
or cuddles, no wrapping
of tiny fingers around her own,
no legs kicking, or laughing
when a child yawned, thinking
it was a smile

no one talked about their
little girl –
no one asked about the color
or her hair – her eyes or her
personality
no one asked if she looked
like mother or father . . .
no one talked.

Mother, she believed.

Every day – from summers
end into dead leaves of fall
onto ice on city walks,
she walked up a hill
to the hospital to stare
through glass –
her walk home - eyes filled
with tears, she recited an
Irish prayer.

Every day after work
father walked up the hill
to stare at his child he
could not hold –
laying naked inside a metal
bed with tubes still
attached to her forehead.

He watched as nurses
tapped the soles of her
feet – to keep her awake
to suck on a miniature
bottle – she began to eat . . .

It was the day before
Christmas - a snow
filled sky – when news
arrived – she could come
home.

Three months and ten
days after her birth
she weighed five pounds -

nurses wrapped her
in tiny booties
a white undershirt
a small pink dress - now
snuggled up inside pink
blankets

with open arms - mother
held her little girl
peered into her open eyes
pinched her little hands
and feet.

Mother, she knew

On Christmas day inside a
neighbor’s car they brought
their little girl home.

Mother looked at my father
and said, “I told you so,
she would survive.”

It was beneath their
Christmas tree – I laid
inside a red wagon –
my older brother next to me
a red bow tied around my
forehead -
Christmas and I finally
made it home.

Mother, she knew.

I Still See Grandmother Wave

I STILL SEE GRANDMOTHER WAVE

Her curtains always yellow
even in winter – she had to
see through them, through
glass – she had to know
everything going on below,
on Seneca Street – when
the street lamps turned on
and Father wasn’t inside –
that’s when buckets of
water were tossed from her
window with yellow curtains
over his head.

Her radiator hissed – and
her thumb curled – way back
and she would lick it as she
turned each page of her bible.
But, it was me – me sitting in
front of that radiator begging
for cookies from her cookie
jar – she continued to pray
aloud and still licked her thumb.

Today, I wish you were still
sitting, facing that window, still
breathing – still telling me to
read “John” from the “New
Testament.”

Instead, everything changed.
I seldom walk up the stairway –
I seldom gaze up to the window –
but every now and then –
I still see Grandmother wave.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

A Poem From "WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE?"

The Night Before

A glorious red balloon
it's how he told me
my mouth felt.

The night before he left
he stared at flesh -
no words exchanged
he wanted me to think
kissing was good, and
took his fingers, closed
my eyelids, told me
“It was alright to breathe.”

Wondered if men gave
out candy here?

The wrong he did was so...
casual for him -
as if he took apart another
puzzle - so singular -

People say birds are exotic.
He compared me to a bird.
Wondered if I could have flown?

A bird twists silently out from
its nest of twigs.

My body settled into summer.
Birds gathered at a feeder.
I feel stillness all so ordinary,
suddenly you are naked -
thinking, the entire
world sees you pass

It is morning and I am again,
alone.

I think of how birds
flew - out there, in the open.

Nancy Duci Denofio
From What Brought You Here? published 2010
by Dystenium http://nancyducidenofio.limitededitions.com
page 16 - 17

MRS. MOAN

Mrs. Moan


Her wooden porch had
a strange creak as her
feet moved up and down
moving a rocker back
and forth with bare feet.

Back and forth, dressed
in white – she stared at
children in the neighborhood -
she seemed to smile
in a strange way – children
told - not to play near her
home, to keep away from
Mrs. Moan. . .

Soiled curtains blew free
from her open windows -
no screens to keep
insects out.

In daylight a mustard
color light without a
shade held giant spider
webs where spiders
weaved silver threads –
stretched high above a
child’s head.

Children in our
neighborhood
feared this woman,
Mrs. Moan -
who lived alone – told
her heart and mind
turned to stone.

When she smiled
she snickered -
in a sneaky way
yelling out to those
of us who passed her
porch -

"Won't you come and play?"

Death took her sunshine,
pride and joy
some fifty years ago – and
now – rocking back and
forth, she would hold
a bowl on her lap -
telling all the children
playing in the street -

"I have some popcorn for
you to eat."

And every day more
bowls were scattered on
her porch, each filled
with more popcorn –
soon covering her porch.

The little girls of the
neighborhood became
her memory of what use
to be – her daughter met
her death when crossing
the street, before the
seventh grade.

We took her flowers as
she smiled, we watched
her rock – back and forth,
and hid along the side of
her porch, listened as she
talked - but no one was
there.

Ed Burns and his
record “Kookie” – I recall
her calling out to me –

“Kookie, Kookie, won’t
you come and play?

While mom she stood
at attention calling out
my name, “Cookie you
come home right this
minute..” she heard
Mrs. Moan’s song –
as it faded in the distance.

Mrs. Moan kept
singing – asking
me to play – until one
day she left her porch -
her rocker disappeared,
her popcorn and all her
bowls, and spider webs
dancing above her head
were swept away. . .

I knew that day, as I
walked past her home
Mrs. Moan
would never be on
her porch – calling out
my name – already I
missed Mrs. Moan.

I learned she found a
better home. . .

I prayed that night she
wouldn’t be alone.
The next day, I entered
the seventh grade.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

STONES END

STONES END

foolish - a woman
lives for diamonds;
how simple to live
with only what one
needs -

how prevalent she
wears high heels -
to wrap herself in fur
to flash gloved hands
to reach to touch a
stranger helping her
to stand...

how remote to see a
smile on her face
how exclusive where
she lays her head
and never prays -
how simple to learn
to smile at a stranger
who smiles back.

When water twists -
turns to find a path
between a woman -
between her life or
our life - there is
no manner, no authority -

her furs - diamonds
white gloves - heals
have all sunk deep into
mud -

no one cares about her
unfrequented mansion
or her individualism
her taste in furniture
or how many windows
face the pacific -

as rock and mud slides
down a mountain -
her clothing disappears
as her pearls lay deeper
into earth then the oyster
where it was born -
into beds of mud -

no one takes her hand -
escorts her from the
back of an open bed truck
where shoulders touch -
strangers who no longer
smile -

rocks, stones -
sticks and mud
have robbed her blind.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

FORGOTTEN FOOT PRINTS

FORGOTTEN FOOT PRINTS

Oh, to blurt out words of yesterday -
blend them into spaces of your life

to recognize a place you’ve been -
to gather up laughter once forgotten

hear the sound of nature when alone -
not knowing who is near – where – or care;

our mind brings us to places we have
been – once remembered – or forgotten -

photographs brings us back - to the day
we lived within its color . . .

our steps are many – yes – some forgotten
foot prints

tomorrow - fresh imprints – new photos
develop in our mind to recall

to bring joy to our existence.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved

AQUAFACARO

AQUAFACARO

The familiar path out
of the village of
Aquafacaro - to reach
wheat fields - began at
the square - at the corner -
where men and boys gathered
to greet a rising sun -
peasants - their life
snuggled along a mountain -

Francisco crept up along the side
of his home, on a dusty path.

I would guess - Francisco
rode on his donkey's back,
and each day he began his
climb up a hill - he must
had stopped to gaze to his
right - to see a sun peek
out from the sea, as
another day changed the color
of his face, his life, from
dark purple to aqua marine.

I can see him - a peasant
covered in white cloth, a
hat on his head to ward off
the sun - staring from the
edge of the mountain to lights
fluttering, sparkling like
bubbles in colored water
above the sea - different
shades of pink... soft,
warmer - as a ball of fire
drinks purple water -
a hue - a brilliant shade
of aqua, turquoise - yet
pink wants to survive.

Francisco - must have stood
still – for a few minutes -

as his eyes moved left to
right - watching shades of
light - as life awakes in
his village - a few feet from
a path where his day began. . .

If he gazed further into a
sea of aqua - his heaven,
to see the Aeolian Island -
he may have dreamed one day
his life too – quite, beautiful -
like small pieces of land
surrounded by colors of a
painting...

Francisco - picked wheat,
filled sacks, and walked his
donkey to a stone hut - placed
wheat beneath shade.

Back and forth - a sun grew
larger in the sky.

At days end, Francisco, on his
donkey's back - repeated his
familiar path - down a dirt,
and dusty road -

I can picture him glancing - off
to his left, as a sun fell
into evening waters – orange -
violet - as if water painted
geraniums, hibiscus, oranges,
lemons - of this land.

Color soaking gradually into
a sea, tinting a sky - beautiful
shades of purple.

He fed his donkey - walked past
friends selling fish, almonds,
and olives - his smile slight -
home - to his wife, Santa. Now
he rests on his stoop - in front
of his home at the corner of a
square in his village until
morning lights a sea –
another daylight, another
glance over a mountain’s edge.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved