Donna Reis is the author of two poetry collections: Torohill (Deerbrook Editions, 2022) and No Passing Zone (Deerbrook Editions, 2012), which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  She is co-editor and contributor to the anthology, Blues for Bill: A Tribute to William Matthews (The University of Akron Press, 2005).  Her non-fiction book, Seeking Ghosts in the Warwick Valley: 60 Personal Accounts (Schiffer Publishing, Ltd., 2003 has sold nearly 3000 copies. Her work has appeared numerous journal including Atlanta Review, Cimarron Review and Delmarva Review. She is a citizen of the United States and Ireland.

My Mother’s Handwriting

My mother had beautiful handwriting.
When mentioned to those who knew
her, they quite agreed.

She was left-handed. Sinister and evil
nuns said and beat it out of her
as though breaking a horse.
They reeked of Catholic school and
ruler, reddened knuckles.

In revenge, she developed a flourishing
cursive, not like attention-seeking girls
who wrote loopy round letters and
drew circles over their “i’s,” but curly
and boxy in perfect lines.

When she was stricken with Parkinson’s,
being a nurse, she diagnosed herself
by her handwriting which became smaller
and smaller, so crooked it was indecipherable.

Halloween

Sent to private school at age six,
not because we were wealthy, but
because when my father was assigned
his first church, he discovered his confirmation
class of ten-year-olds couldn’t read or write.
That year I chose to be a witch for Halloween.
My mother bought me a costume. Thrilled,
I went to class wearing my molded, facemask
with a shiny, short black dress slipped over
my clothes. Everyone else wore mother-
sewn costumes. The witches had flowing black
capes that swirled behind them and tall,
paper stapled cone hats. I went home in tears.
My mother rarely empathized, but the following
year when I wanted to be a gypsy, she made
an orange skirt with two big pockets. It wrapped
around me fastened by hooks and eyes.
I wore it with my favorite orange print blouse
And we draped necklaces over my neck. The skirt
mystically fluttered round me years before I read
tarot cards and was considered and intuit. I glided
through halls with my best friend who was a gypsy
as well and I dare say my costume was better.

Fire

At night the mountain ridge blazes
crimson. From the kitchen window,
I fear the flames will travel down
into our valley and burn our home.
Adults climb trails in droves and rake
cinders. Hikers, they blame or dumb
kids who smoked or broke beer bottles,
shards left to catch sunlight and smolder.

My grandmother had a motion lamp.
As the bulb heated the cylindrical
shade, it spun turning a tranquil forest
Into a raging fire. Flames licked my face
as animals fled for their lives. I watched
the scene spun its horror during each
visit like a moth drawn to flame.

Once I held a magnifying glass
to a leaf until it smoked,
realizing we can all combust
with just the right angle and light.

Introductions

Every time I brought a new boyfriend home,
I was filled with anticipation, pride and dread.
Even the best looking was received by my
father with He’s awfully handsome, Donna.
Are you sure he doesn’t have a wife and kids
somewhere?  While my dental hygienist
mother said, He has a broken nose
and capped teeth. Someone probably
needed to punch his lights out. By the way,
that’s the worst cap job I’ve ever seen.
As soon as Dad learned my second husband
was a musician who gigged in other cities, he
said, I bet he has another girlfriend in Boston.
Mom spat, He’s a shithead. Luckily, when I
married again, they had both passed away.