DONNA PUCCIANI

The Poets Consider Death

Featured in a recent anthology on age,

we confer tonight via computer

as the coral sun sags in the western sky

and a gusty wind captures branches

in backyards from Chicago to Cheyenne.

Faces, sophisticated or frowsy,

subtly wrinkled or creased

like an old bed-sheet, prepare to read

versed pronouncements

on widowhood, sudden tragedy,

or the inexplicable prospect of non-being.

Sonnets and sestinas weave stanzas

together like Rackham’s fairies at play

or witticisms at the Mad Hatter’s tea party.

The tongues of poets seduce the Reaper,

confronting his ubiquitous scythe

with syllables of prophecy,

beyond dark humor about taxes

or the deep drama of Hamlet’s soliloquy.

Afterwards, we all click off computers

in darkening offices and bedrooms

all over America, as one by one

we welcome the gathering, wordless dark.

Tonight I dream

of Lancashire, red brick houses

tumbling down a hill, clouds

of sheep spreading among the hedges.

I watch my footing

while scrambling up the slopes

strewn with wimberries and heather,

not risking a turned ankle

at my age.

Horses wander in the field

beyond the wire fence, nodding

to see if I have a carrot in hand,

their sloping eyes gentle with desire.

Rounding the corner at the edge

of the meadow, I reach a roadside

row of shops— bakery, post office,

newsagent, where I chat

with the woman at the till and feel

the newsprint smudge a comforting

pattern on the palms of my hands.

This is the way I fall asleep

in Chicago after a day watching

autocracy spread like a leprous sore

on the skins of my neighbors—

the innocent, the hateful, the oblivious—

who hustle like sheep to work and back,

and tuck heir unsuspecting children into bed.

Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, Agenda, Acumen, Gradiva, ParisLitUp and other journals. Her seventh and latest book of poetry is Edges.

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