MARY ANNA SCENGA KRUCH

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POETRY

Image by Samuele Errico Piccarini

At the Horizon 



After “My House is the Red Earth” by Joy Harjo

My dwelling rests at the horizon
resembles a finely penned road
haloed in sunset’s rose gold
like an infinite balcony
that frames the sea.
Words cannot create it
for there are some places
left to wordless form
but one might try.
For instance
tomorrow I may dwell
atop a Ferris wheel
seat swaying gracefully under certain stars
or stuck in a seat dangling and shaken
yet still am drawn to stars
destined to be at home
exactly where I am.

What I Could Not Say

I will send you letters
that pulse the air that aches around us
letters where I write in fountain pen
su carta di Firenze /on paper from Florence /
each scratch of pen to paper
humming truth in my hand
that presses against my chest
to sing words I cannot say
late last night
when you too may have sat
heart thrumming
ready and waiting for
letters that validate the air
that aches between us
smudged ink on letterhead
that craves release
of what I could not say
but may need to scream   
in deep blue, unprofessed words
you are my home.