Winter
Is there a place where you could love me?
The crib where you’d wake up singing,
my arms in the airplane all the long way home,
Grand Central Terminal’s vaulted stars?
Summer mornings in the crib, you’d wake up singing.
We strolled the leaf-strewn streets to school.
Under Grand Central’s arches, we gaped at stars
until the world spun upside down. You wanted to live there.
You lingered on the leaf-strewn streets to school,
let go of my hand for the door to the underworld,
a place upside down. You knew you would live there.
All your life you waited to shut the cold door.
You opened door after door to the underworld,
wintry, stylish rooms – no place you could love me.
All your life waiting to shut the cold door,
you leaned out of my arms all the long way home.
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Julia Bucci is a writer, teacher, and filmmaker. Her work has appeared on The Moth Radio Hour, in film festivals, and in publications including Cognoscenti, Gyroscope Review, Teach.Write, and SBLAAM. One of her screenplays was a 2024 PAGE Awards finalist. Julia has taught English at various colleges and high schools; she now teaches life writing to older adults. While too much academic training, including a PhD in English, blocked her for many years from actually sitting down and writing, she’s finally internalizing her own advice to students about writing through laziness, timidity, and perfectionism.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 