Donna Pucciani


The radio reports tonight that

Jupiter and Venus will appear

to the right of a three-quarter moon

like little echoes from a big drum,

or crumbs of cheese on the dark

platter of Chicago sky.


My mother told me about green cheese,

and I would stare at the pockmarked face

lit by earth’s private, immense star

and stick out my tongue to lick it.


If I got lucky, I tasted fall in the air

when the moon was cheddar-gold,

or raindrops in spring, when pear blossoms

camouflaged a confetti sky.  But now,


Jupiter’s white, starched bib is ready

for champagne, and the breast of Venus

escapes from the folds of her black crepe,

seducing lunar light.  Holding the moon


at arm’s length, two planets burn

on velvet wicks, just far enough away

from a globed lunar god

to escape death by brilliance.



Donna Pucciani has published in The Pedestal, Spoon River Poetry Review, Journal of the American Medical Association, and Iota.  She has won awards from the Illinois Art Council. Her collections include The Other Side of Thunder (Flarestack, 2006), Jumping Off the Train (Windstorm, 2007) and Chasing the Saints (Virtual Artists Collective, 2008).  She is active in the Chicago poetry scene and serves as Vice President of the Poet’s Club of Chicago.