4/13/2018 Poetry by Nancy IannucciTyping… waiting to hear it from your finger lips lips on plastic chips tap dancing in your cave, my caveman, a work of parietal art, breathing in the smoky air under clouds of dense music waiting to hear it from your finger lips before I go to bed when I wake up lips on plastic chips tap dancing Typing… “I miss you, baby.” Venus Fly Trap She rolls over head down hungry, weeping in a fetal position on a sapphire comforter held together by four safety pins. He flies over doesn’t touch her he knows she wants him she can’t reach him He opens the first pin pricks her petiole soothes himself in wet forests He unlatches the second pin puts it in his mouth “sit the fuck down” she wilts & waits unfastening the third, he spirals her head, humming: “I don’t know if I love you, but I don’t know that I don’t” he watches her birds fly from the sill she rolls over, Head Up mouth open she snatches him & the fourth pin then shuts on the seventh day she opens restored & fierce her worth ruler of the Earth. Fathers I found James Dean sitting like a hobo up against my back door, pounding & pounding it in Wittenberg rapture rhythms until I invited him in. He asked me to be his Mary. I mean the one from Magdala, he said. He gave me a loose mission to shield him from flashing parasites who will come in waves of vaulting locusts, setting fields to ashes, dust to dust, who will chew his ears & legs like Giotto’s devil then spit out their spin & tweet their tweets with their fat fucking beaks about the resurrection. I won’t let them in. I can’t let them in. We need time before the world wakes. I need to know the truth about fathers & his father, Winton. Did he see him in his other fathers: Frank Stark & Adam Trask? Fathers! Your Fathers! Our Fathers! The same fathers who sat with vacant smiles posing for cheap Sears photos with little nascent rebels on their laps. Our Fathers who are or are not in heaven, driving us to drift until we crack, to drink to fatality, but Dean was the first to crash. Safe here before the storm / the arrival / we shared anecdotes about our fathers while he washed my hair clean of nard. ![]() Bio: Nancy Byrne 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, Gargoyle, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Riggwelter Press, Poetry Breakfast, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Picaroon Poetry, Dying Dahlia Review to name a few. Her debut book of poetry, Temptation of Wood, is due out in May, 2018, published by Nixes Mate Review. Comments are closed.
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