Nancy Byrne Iannucci

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Snow White

He paused     for me,
radiating, in pulsars
and quasars
yearning
for my red-blooded nectar,
half-full inside the urn.
I give it freely, openly,
like a purple penstemon
awaiting his forked tongue
to lasso me in lamellae.
He comes in so fast-
a shadowy, woodstar,
like Prince
if he were to sing
When Doves Cry
under Lomanstraat X trees.
His wings say,
I cannot stay.
I’m a transient player.
This, I knew somehow,
but in those few miraculous minutes,
he made me believe
I was his Snow White.

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Full Moon

She searches between the trees
for celebratory socials and sacrificial gifts.
Drained over mastering tedious tides,
she catches her bright breath
and sits like a pope in the Vatican,
listening to a choir of wolves howling,
as owls look on
           blinking
                    in disbelief
           at the mess
           we’ve made
           of this world.

---

Do You See Us Going Somewhere?
                                  --- for my next poem

 My relationship with you
is like Edgar Allen Poe’s
wish to write
as mysterious as a cat.
But more than that,
I crave a crow,
cloaked in black
like a bebop jazz musician
strumming a weathervane
in the rain.
In the morning,
I drop the cloak
for a blue jacket,
fasten my brass buttons,
and race to a Garden
called Eden
to eat the cold clover
that has frozen over.
I’m wandering with my pen
never knowing where
 you will take me.
I like you a lot.
Do you see us
going somewhere?

---

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Banner Art:
from Haunted House, Morris Kantor, 1930