Monday, 20 November 2017

2 poems by Nancy Iannucci

Target Rock, 1983 


We belly-flopped to the ground,
rolling over stabbing crabgrass
in fits of summer laughter
one eye open with caution for
the coiled ones,
the crooked ones

but we gazed up
at wild blackberry vines
crawling along railroad ties
Mother picked those blackberries
one by one
warming her tongue
with bursts of sweet seeds;
it was easy to forget
when we gazed up

& when she smiled,
toiling soil, whistling
at the clouds staging coups,
inhaling the noon air-

forgetting ourselves,
forgetting the dark
ground creatures
collecting our particles
on their tongues,
flicking reminders
like snapping fingers,
we looked down
weeds dropping
to the hot ground

Father descended
like St. Patrick
to cast them out
across the field
down a sandy sump

running with a lump
in our throats,
we knew then
our little hands
were next in line
to take up the rake
& push those demons out
beyond Target Rock.








Nancy Iannucci is a historian who teaches history and lives poetry in Troy, NY. Her work is published/forthcoming in numerous publications including Bop Dead City, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Star 82 Review (*82), Gargoyle, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Nixes Mate Review, Poetry Breakfast, Rose Red Review, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Picaroon Poetry, Yellow Chair Review, Dying Dahlia Review to name a few.


-------
First published 14/07/16

Vicious Cycle


When our eyes met for the first time,
I heaved a sigh that I thought you heard.
You knew a simple hello and goodbye would never
do, so I dropped my weighty anchor into your palm
and you rubbed it seven times like a horseshoe.
                                                       
When our eyes met for the second time,
I picked your words like berries while catching
chords that fell from your guitar strings; my arms
were open like a basket eager to carry your
lyrics as if they were meant for me.

When our eyes met for the third time,
it was in a delirious dream of whirling desert sand.
Yellow & tan, tan & yellow scenes of grit crusting
my sight, distorting your fair face like an omen; you
were a dark creature choking in a harmonica neck hold.

When our eyes met for the fourth time,
Alex Forrest gazed back at me on the edge
of psychosis sinking in paranoia quicksand
with arms flailing, gasping for air,
suffocating in your circle of games.

When our eyes met for the fifth time,
I willingly closed them; hoisted my anchor from
your palm and walked into the woods like an
emancipated slave where Anath took me in;
she placed a bow and sickle in my hand so

when our eyes meet for the sixth time,
I will have the skills and weapons to resist you;
And it will be you who will heave a sigh that will
go unheard at the sight of me- strong and dauntless.
But the day will come when you will hum

another song that will break me and the vicious cycle
between us will resuscitate, rendering us helpless- gyrating
like a red and yellow mane on a stallion horse. 


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