a poetry e-zine










Donna Pucciani

Above the back door,
twig by twig,
the robin builds her nest
behind the lightless lantern.

We’ve knocked it down twice,
dismantling several days’ work,
with the swipe of a broom.
We’re not mean, but she’s

made a mess. White excrement,
seeded with black, has dripped
a shiny swathe down the neatly-
painted cedar, and the oil

from her feathers has left
a dark Rorschach stain.
She dives past the window
so fast we see only

a brown blur of wings,
no eye, claw or beak.
She agitates when we open
the door.  We cower under her wrath.

She knows she is unwanted,
a visitor in need of shelter,
willing to build her own. But
there are shrubs and trees

to hold her and her blue eggs,
her cacophonic song, her fierce wings
insisting on our reluctant refuge.
Now she sits in woven straw

atop the drainpipe, nested under
the eaves, head barely visible, eyes
stone-round, unblinking, body
motionless, awaiting young.

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

Copyright 2017  Chantarelle's Notebook