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

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

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