by Donna Pucciani

we are without pages,
pens dropping from our hands

stars rise on our poverty
the moon sheds light on our infirmities

the sun sets over villages
of street children, the toothless

smiles of their mothers
our hopes fall like snow

drifting in the global heat
of melted glaciers one can hear

the laughter of the powerful
as limousines bear them away

a celebration of those
who have been bought

while we of the clipped tongues
and cropped wings join the wind

to disappear like dried leaves
or the incomparable babble of the rich

the face of hope lies hidden
in the shadows her dark eyes

fearful, her mouth open wide


Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry on four continents. Her work has been translated into Italian, German, Chinese and Japanese. Her seventh and most recent book of poems is EDGES.

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