When I can’t get into you,
I get into a white magnolia tree,
where the Northern Flicker pecks & pecks above me
without severing a branch. I listen to its knocks
like the knocks in my head, thinking of the days ahead
and unanswered questions. I examine its leaves like tasseomancy,
following its veins, running with it, like the veins that run through us.
I see bits of gold, a trail of corn silk that the deer have left behind,
leading to a secret thicket. All I know is that it feels safe there,
safe with you, despite unanswered questions.
Nancy Byrne Iannucci is a writer from New York —her work has appeared in Thrush Poetry Journal, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Eunoia, 34 Orchard, Maudlin House, and San Pedro River Review. She is the author of four chapbooks and is a two-time Best of the Net nominee. She was also short-listed for the 2025 Poetry Lighthouse poetry prize.