MY FAVORITE DOLL

MY FAVORITE DOLL


Grandmother catches rain in
a rain barrel - near rows of dirt.
I play as my small fingers twist
a dented handle, like those I use
to turn on a faucet in our kitchen,
this one attached to a barrel –
that is, if eyes from upstairs on
the second floor aren’t watching
me.

A girlfriend of mine, from across
a cut off, as to which school we
attend, just across the street – she
came to my birthday – brought me
a new set of plastic plates, cups,
spoons, cups, and a tea pot.

So, she made me so happy, I loved
red and white. I wonder if she picked
them out? I bet it was her Mama.

I fill white and red cups with water
from the old rusty barrel – serve my
dolls a special cup of tea.

In the middle of our tea party my
Mama complains from our side porch
about that clothes line stuck in the
center of our yard. I tell my dolls to
close their ears, not to listen to Mama.

I tell my doll, my favorite – she sits to
the left, with long reddish brown hair
and blue eyes, I talk to her as if she
were my sister – explaining a line of
rope has to divide our space to dry
clothes. She listens through closed
ears.

A few years ago my father’s father
chopped down a cherry tree, and an
apple tree, but we still have the pear
tree – growing fuzzy pears.

Pears are hard, but Grandma slices
them with her hands, her thumb sticks
out, she wants me to eat pears but I
don’t. She tells me, “Come on, they
are good for you,” still I say no.

So my tea party doesn’t include any
pears for dessert. Instead of pears,
we have red beans, like the plates,
I had to learn how to remove them
placing my little hand at the very top
of the stem, quickly pulling down – all
those green stems fall off with red beans
so I am ready, to serve those dolls.

Good thing we live on a corner lot,
where our sidewalk is longer – those
bushes with beans grow from one end
to the other. Grandmother - she sweats
when trimming those bushes, I stare,
watch – her arms opening - closing
holding big scissors.

I know she won’t ruin those red beans
because they just grow and she sweats
all summer, the same thing. Did I tell you
I mix mud from dirt near our barrel into
beans for mud pies. My dolls love mud
pies for a special treat.

Mama watches me from the side porch,
she isn’t complaining about our clothes
line, she is leaning over a yellow railing –
it was loose last week but Papa, he fixed
it. On our front porch Mama leans to snip
roses, “Seven Sisters,” even if she hates
them she snips them – places them onto
our kitchen table. Perhaps, I should have
flowers for my dolls?

When I ask my dolls, they don’t talk, all
they do is stare back, kind of like Mama’s
eyes when she stares at me, I know what
she wants. I think everyone stares in
my neighborhood including my neighbors,
Mama, Grandmother, and especially -
our grocery man.

I carry my favorite doll around to our front
porch, Mama is resting on our metal milk
box, inside I hide my paper dolls.

Next to Mama is her opened bottle of “Schlitz”
beer, some cut cheese, and lotion to tan
her pure white skin. And, her open pack
of “Chesterfield” cigarettes. When she
sucks in smoke she holds it inside for a long
time. Sometimes smoke comes out her nose,
circles her head, and reaches up to touch the
highest rose, those “Seven Sisters.”

Mother was one of five sisters. But, who
knows, she could have had a doll she called
a sister too?

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

WHEN DARKNESS COVERS THE MOUNTAIN

WHEN DARKNESS COVERS THE MOUNTAIN

We must sleep as a sun slips behind
our mountains to the north -
as if time is light and dark.

We must hope for dreams at night -
dreams which pull me up and over our
mountain, into another space and time.

Here the sky is blue - although below
a black sky hovers over land - drenched
by a blast of showers; four inches Mama
told me.

Mama, she doesn't know I am - in a new world
where I can play in light - leaving darkness
of my past - she, doesn't know...

Against the color blue MaMa would be smiling
but, not every day - she would feel yellow
here with sunshine below her -

Because it is here where I need nothing
but my soul to lead me - my lost friends to
smile and show me, teach me what MaMa lost
in time forgot to do.

Here I can protect - be kind, and recall only
what brought happiness - what brought me
closer to those I had seen in darkness.

Our mountains in daylight - I return to wet
fields behind our home to see a sun begin
to rise to my east between two mountains.

Now the rain is gone - people mill around to
begin a new day and I am happy - I smile
to feel their love - no matter what I knew -

And, tonight when I slip away from darkness -
I will grow stronger soaking up the colors
to carry in my heart - back home.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

AGING BUNDLES OF DEBRIS

Aging Bundles of Debris

Seven... locked inside a storm cellar
bulbs hang to dry in damp -
darkness of night.
Sleds are posed for winter play - long
piles of wood where Mama said,
“Mice live.”

I reach to find a glove grandmother
used in her garden, stiff from yellow
paint.

Light enters near an oval window
covered in last years paper, and
saran wrap taped to studded walls.
It’s beyond the door where steps
of cement lead up to reach outside.

Tiny pieces of cement catch between
toes, tickle bare feet. Spider webs
hang near a light switch, so I don’t
touch… silver strands of silk - still -
until the bulb heats and moves the web

I am stranded here with aging bundles
of debris -

I see it now! Feel it now -
Locked down in a storm cellar -
a play spot - a hide out,
a storage room for grandmother’s vegetables -
a shed for tools, a place where
mama kept cardboard boxes filled
with dolls, tricycles - hanging above my head.

I remember - cold, and shiver run
up and down my arms – even in summer.
I remember fear, when someone caught
me alone in the storm cellar -
where children never played.

Nancy Duci Denofio
published page 5
Just Another Day

FIRESIDE

FIRESIDE

knees diagonal to the ground
mom’s sweater resting on your
back – sweeping near sand
frozen toes protrude scuffed
sandals

heartless is the forest in night
color vanishes from the sky
bodies shake with seizure
shivers crawl up your spine
standing – nearer to a source
of light growing brighter

a fireside – smell of wood
faces red as heat multiplies
clutched within tiny hands
a sturdy twig

a stillness – waiting your turn
thoughts captured by flames –
a plastic bag passed along
two fluffy marshmallows
placed on a twig

promptly toasting, eating -
observing the amount left
in the bag - counting to yourself.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
a collection of work
published in 1991

FISH FLY at the BOSTON FISH MARKET - 1956

FISH FLY at the BOSTON
FISH MARKET - 1956


Some strange odor
of fish clung
to my clothes, and
Boston humidity
drenched my hair –

at five – seven summers
in a row – fingers clenched
around a wire fence –
waiting for dead fish to
fly – flopping onto a deck
where men used shovels
to load big trucks.

The big drop – a full
day of vacation at the
Boston Fish Market –
standing next to my
brother to watch dead
fish fly out of giant boats –
I never stopped pinching
my nose.

Why were grown ups
smiling and laughing?
Why were they taking
in that smell of dead
fish?

This trip – from the shore
had to be on the things
to do – list.

One August before
our trip - Mama
skinned me like the
fish at the market -
cutting off long
locks of hair –

In August – at the
shore, Mama said,
“It’s too hot for
this long hair,”
snip – snip – snip.

Well – if there was
such a thing as
“Mommy Dearest”
back then, while I
heard the snipping
of my hair – saw long
curls fall onto my Aunt’s
floor - I would
have sworn it was
Mama playing that part!

You see, she believed
her sister, believed
children carried
bugs to school –
but other girls didn’t
have to chop their hair.

It had to be that awful
smell of fish – she
probably couldn’t stand
the smell of dead fish –
but never told me. . .

I pranced around
the shore looking like
a tomboy that summer,
and I covered my eyes,
because my bangs weren’t
shielding me from the
sun – and I pinched my
nose, out of habit!
And felt bad without
curls…

The next summer,
I grew taller, hair
longer – and I knew
I still hated fish –
I still hated short
hair – and I knew I
never did have bugs,
since my hair wasn’t
cut!

Been to bean
town over and over,
but never looked
for dead fish fly
from a giant boat,
and never smelled
fish in a child’s hair –
nor did I ever chop
my daughter’s hair
in August.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

MAMA'S BED

Mama’s Bed

left alone on Mama’s bed –
in Mama’s room -
Grandmother’s feet
black tied
shoes
danced above my head -

behind the old wooden
door – I thought a bear hid
but learned it was a fur
coat handing from a metal
hook -

talked to God – on Mama’s
bed – tears moistened
clean white sheets –
pushing a feather pillow
far from me – it was God
I needed -

asked him – screamed in
silence from the inside out –
asked him – please God
take me first.
I can leave earths
beauty – don’t take those
who love me please -

seven, I knew enough
I could wait - stretched
my arms grabbing at a pillow
sobbing into silence.

her red velvet - an
old worn couch - her
knitting needles
clanging - glasses falling
from her Irish face - now

red blood, poured
out of her mouth - down
her neck - I wiped it away -

thirty days her will
kept her alive -
God -
you never listened
to me
on Mama’s bed -
I pleaded - sobbed,
asking to go first.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

GREED

GREED


Your children cry at night
for they are hungry
and their Papa has no job
no one wants a drop out -
the head - of the family, prays.

A child watches as a family
enters a grocery store, and
their PaPa opens up his wallet,
can't pay to feed his family,
so he purchases necessities
and their growing child suffers.

Their child becomes sick, and
a druggist hands them a bill
for some generic medication –
a parent, with a tear in their
eye, leaves it there and prays
Illness will dissipate.

The family tries to sell their home –
to pay bills, to feed a weaken child
and watches when their child suffers
in a metal crib, not their own. . .
No luck, so leave their house without
a place to sleep.

The family begs for food, a place
to lay their heads, a place where a
sick child can cuddle in the night.
They dream about a wooden crib
and wake to find their child dead.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved