Two Poems by Emily DiGiovanni

At Twelve

There were three diamonds of light
in the corner by the stairs:

One –
above the light switch dirtied by finger marks
Two –
on the closet where a young ghost was crouched,
Three –
below the smooth, metallic image of a saint

Like constellations (the Seven Sisters),
they seemed to know the other existed

Outside, a nightgowned girl was running
from summer dusk and eternal gnats
Her arms outstretched and begging
to be noticed more than
the ears –
fragile crevices
the eyes –
tender folds

On the porch, the father smiled, “At twelve, at twelve,”
as the corner lost its light marks – unseen, unscarred



The Attic

Juanito strummed across the floor,
the boards scuffed as if tapped upon
by a thousand Shirley Temples.

An artist, a woman
in a sheer dress of shadows
hung – unlike a painting or a curtain
or even a lamp jolting with ideas
clicking bright, on, off –
in the background

She was a presence with opinions
scrawled on paper doilies
and, when desperate,
a leather bound journal from Italy.

The artist, she was chiming,
“No breeze can reach me on this hill.
If I close my face to everything,
the world is very still.”

And Juanito, the sanguine rebel,
contested silently,
with a tip, a tap, a tap, tap, tap.

He was breaking her obsession
with wearing funeral black.


pinit fg en rect gray 20 Two Poems by Emily DiGiovanni
Posted in PoetryBookmark the permalink. Trackbacks are closed, but you can post a comment.