"Donna Pecore has a BA in poetry from Columbia College Chicago, where she started “Poetry in the Round”, and is editor and contributor to the PITR anthology “Word Curves.” Recipient of the Alma Stuckey Award. CCC publication credits: “Demo Four,” “Reservoir,” "South Loop Review," and “Word 2 Word.” Other credits: “Best of Chicago Poetry,” “Best of Chicago’s Open Mike-2,” “Journal of Ordinary Thought,” “North Central College Review,” “Poetry Super Highway,” “The Solitary Plover,” and the Goodman Theater and the Smart Museum’s websites. She found poetry at Weeds in ‘96 and her first publication was the online ‘zine “Poetry Victims.” Donna reads at several venues: “JOT’s” Art of Play, Humanities Festival, Printers Row, the Clothesline Project: curator Michelle Sayset, producer Cathleen Schandelmeier's Beach Poets and Foot Fantasia presentation, plus CJ Laity's Chicago Poetry's extravaganzas. Tutored and taught poetry at the American Indian Center. A mother of three and caregiver to her 85 yr. old mother (who is feisty enough to spit her pills across the room) lives on the Northwest side of Chicago along with her grand dog, Apache she is off to get her master’s at UIC."
I added Donna's bio and picture late, as I hadn't received them at the same time as the submissions. Check out the poemsies!
Crib DeathI had that dream again, that awful achy one, that wake me up one, that keep me up all night one. Timbers rose amid the smoky midnight mist, sky scraper high, darks way.
I had that dream again; you know that dream, the one that makes the goose bumps on my arms pop on even the hottest nights. Eyes heavy with sleep glue I wipe to see if somehow
that dream I had again, had materialized within this room, had escaped the other rooms, the dark rooms we inhabit in those silent hours. Did it find the numbers on my door? Did
that dream, I had again, hold the key to enter that door, walk inside and visit this house? The baby sleeps. The cat approaches. The baby sleeps. The cat comes close. I shake my
head; I shake the dream I had again. I wake into another room. I walk into another room. I see myself, deep asleep beneath the forest boughs. The mountain lion sits right next to
me–he lowers his head. I am in the dream I had again. It is too dark to see, too dark to breathe. It is too dark to know if it is real, if there is a way out, if this is wrong, or might
this nocturnal fright be. Do I surrender to that dream that I had again? See what unknown room it leads me to? See what place, what space, what emptiness or hold my breath,
no matter how hard that dream I had again, sucks me in? Or let it suck the day’s light? Leave me in dark. Without the light there is no dark, no right, no wrong. Falling hard
back into the dream I had again. The forest floor, my bed, wraps roots round my arms, round my legs, round my throat. The more I writhe and thrash, tighter the tree binds
me into the dream that I had again. The cat approaches. The baby sleeps. The mountain lion comes close. The baby sleeps. I don’t sleep as I wipe spilt milk from the baby’s chin.
CARDIOMYOPATHY (A disease of the heart muscle)Dis-ease this is not easy, this dissection of emotion, the unused muscle deteriorates, turns one into a cold hearted bitch.
The shriveled entity resists inspection withdraws within the dark recesses of the chest cave and hides, a frightened rat.
Dis-ease. Does that mean a broken heart is contagious like…the flu?
With this entropic study, am I considering the measure of the disorder that exists or the measure of unavailable energy or the measure of efficiency of communication in regards to the dis-ease…perhaps all three?
Is it even feasible to consider what damage occurs? Emotion diffused by knowledge like grass seed. Dis-ease: an un-ease. He was an ass but that didn’t matter much.
How is the measure made?
According to the dis-ease’s progression different levels of pain are indicated by the rise of the mercury inside the thermometer and the explosive emotion or lack of reaction to removal, the divorce of the offending source.
Empty chambers fill as the Mitral valve opens and emotions pump blood erratically into the weakened organ. Coumadin thinned to allow flow. Thin skinned vulnerable enough.
Is a cure feasible or even available or has too much damage been done by and from this dis-ease? Artificial resuscitation, a Jarvis heart, my puppy’s kisses, my writing, a sunset navigates the ventricles widens the vena cava, removes built up plaque.
The danger now is if this build up of dis-ease’s hostile plaque gathers in one location ceasing the ebb and flow of love of life. A balloon pushes past hate and hostile blockage, restores breath, and earns one another chance at heart’s content.
Prescription: Practice gratitude for this chance, but by all means avoid caustic relations, salt, and exercise caution but don’t be afraid to develop relationships. Open heart
to opportunities.
