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

ANGELS FLY BETWEEN BRANCHES OF A TREE

Angels Fly Between
Branches of a Tree

Angels gather above trees
behind my home – I told friends –
do you believe me?
have my friends seen angels
between the branches of my tree?

In the morning I stand barefoot
grass sneaks between toes
wet from morning dew,
grown ups call it dew. . .they
say dew covers grass –
our cellar door – where I sit –
is wet, covered in dew.

I walk bare foot – feet covered
in dew – I wiggle my toes
wait for the angels to return –
wonder I could learn to fly?

I push my hair away
from my face – damp hair
filters between each
tips of my fingers -

a sun begins to peek
out from the mountain. . .
spreading orange into
a fog.

Now – stare at the tree
I whisper aloud - now
sparkles of light flicker as
diamonds – entering my
skin, my soul, magnifying
day – as transparent
as a sky of blue above me
as a sudden state of light
of different colors paints
the sky. . .

I tell people, “I feel different,”
but no one believes me – or
will they join me in early
morning when words do
not illustrate how articulate
a mystery is –

I know what I left inside
is a blank canvas, unpainted -
outside a sprinkle of angel
dust has unclouded my
mind –

So I wake up early each
morning to feel damp skin –
to wiggle my toes.