for Liz Ryan, Luton, U.K.
- My friend who worked the nighttime shift for years
- would listen hours in the dark, alone
- except for desperate people full of fears
- whose only hope at midnight was the phone.
- They'd call with suicidal thoughts at two,
- when shops were closed and villagers asleep,
- and flowers on the fence adrift in dew,
- to tell of moon-blown problems and to weep.
- Sometimes a dire illness told the tale
- of suffering and pain in every breath.
- Or unrequited love would leave a wake
- of tears, to lead the dying into death.
- But hers was not to judge or to advise;
- it's in the listening that she proved most wise.
Packingtown Review – Vol.9, Fall 2017
Donna Pucciani has published poetry on four continents. Her work has been translated into several languages and published in such diverse publications as ShiChao Poetry, Gradiva, Acuman, Poetry Salzburg, and Istanbul Literary Review. Her seventh collection of poems, EDGES, is forthcoming from Purple Flag, Chicago.