TIN BUCKETS

Tin Buckets


Mother, today near our yellow
garage, I leaned against old
chipped paint,
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
live inside
no one saves bruised fruit
or has time to cut away a
rotten spot – like Grandma.

Are you with 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 remember?
growing back home, in your town –
“Middle” – Mother said – always
said “Middle” not Middle Granville
a place near the border of Vermont -
Mother – you were proud of those
maple trees – crying like the pears
but into 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 home
you climbed their limbs - you tied
tin to their trunks – you hid beneath
a Maple tree like a piece of scorned
fruit.

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

You see mother - now you can fly;

resting in peace – never your style
yet 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.” Then laughed!
I believe you protect me…

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
and you hear me – you hear me when
I talk. My husband believes – since you
touched his face – I’m pleased –

Mother, you are watching me –

You see me, hear me, listen to all
the words – and answer in your own
way – we believe.

The 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, and touch faces in
our sleep – 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

LOVE LETTERS

When a man loves A Women – World War II



It all began one late afternoon
in October when my father
handed me a stack of letters,
“For the stamps” he said. Well,
I knew different when I reached
out and touched the letters.

Father continued to point toward
the stamps, repeating how valuable
they were.
I was never a stamp collector,
but I am a writer.

Like most evenings, I retired early,
turned on the television, switched the
bedside lamp on and pretended to
listen to the program which is a
normal part of falling asleep.

I stacked the letters inside my dresser
near the bed, and this would be the first time
I learned the inside workings of my
mother and father.

My heart began to beat faster, recognizing
old familiar feelings – sayings I heard
as a child – now – filled with anticipation.

A smile covered my face,
no one would see it, but I knew it,
and I even heard myself giggle.

Between letters I repositioned myself
on the bed, my legs moving nervously about
as I lived their world, felt their emotions,
love, desperation, and dreams.

Nothing could be better,
nothing could compare to this night.
My mother said, “One day we may have
a little girl, and when she’s grown she
may want to read all we have said.”

Mother died young, but I recall
all her words, and now in black
and white.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

Drug Songs

The music played
drug songs
skin, smooth
neck, smooth
rose lips
leather pants
the music played
drug songs…
a yellow
light flashed...
we’re squinting -
a red kerchief
cupped a ponytail,
the music played
drug songs... elastic
lines on his
forehead...
suspended arms,
round glasses,
as the music played
drug songs...

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

Waiting At Camp

Round sweet love,
belly button protrudes
arms rest on a
homemade - lovers table -

lines of empty brew of
tin, glass...

a single ant carries a biting
fly across a redwood
deck near new sneakers
placed on metal
legs - to move you.

a flame flickers
to rid the air of flying
bugs..

inside, near
a belly button, legs
are kicked, begging
to be born.

cold stone poised
at the side of a
hill near horse
shoes, tossed in air,
sand flies

suntan lotion,
lemonade, camera
flashes, music blares
legs tanned
belly bare,
black
cotton expands

binoculars to
seek out life,
movement
in the forest,

a yawn, she
rubs her belly
waiting for
her son

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

MY THOUGHTS AND WORDS WHILE
STANDING IN FRONT OF ART
AT THE MUSEUM of ART CHICAGO 2006

1. A MAN

must be a man painted this
shirt, tie, and no body
but the number 25…
could be he was a teacher
a scattering of apples lay
near the bottom in bright
reds and a touch of orange,
and where his head belongs –
a rocket flies.

2. Pink Water

Wouldn’t it be great to
swim in pink water
instead of always – blue.

3. Ramone

Romone - a girl with
leggings – pop vacant
eyes –
thick brows and lids
tells us she lived back
in 1955 –
Near her a boy without
a face – watches her
spread eagle beyond a
cracked sidewalk.

4. Sin

Sin and paper
twisted – turned
with letters
three dimensional.

5. Shadows

From a shadow of
a flower to a martini
with an olice
profile of an African
a child being strangled

The flowers leaves
are dry as a thumb
spills a martini – an
African disappears and
the child’s bed empty. . .

the eclipse – one opened
umbrella
and from a thumb a face
emerges
shrinks – as a tree grows
and then cut –
as art and turned into a
twig.