" The Italian Market "
Cara mio
the people here
do not speak as I do!
She treads this drenched concrete
in search of i pomodori
under the dripping awnings;
not in search of tomatoes.
Amore mio
these produce peddlers
stand in the rain
with their light hair and blue eyes
trying to sell me olives?
Olives that match my skin,
not theirs!
I told her to visit Tolluto's,
they would speak her language there;
even as she did that
I could see the clouds in her dark eyes,
her countenance as overcast
as the sky had been since dawn.
Antonio,
ho bisogno la vita bella;
dov'e la vita italiana?
I told her:
Cara mia,
if you can't find bell'Italia
in the smell of the meat,
the presentation of the cheese,
or the chill of the ice-packed fish,
then you are as blind as the accordion player
who sings a love song on that corner
for the tourists' pennies.
She turned those ethnocentric eyes
on me:
Amore mio
I know what it is.
We need to come back
on a brittle day in autunno;
we'll buy a bottle of il vino
and make friends with the Tollutos.
Their fresh gnocchi enchants her,
stirs in her a familiarity;
something like
la sua casa
a Caserta.
I buy her i fiori
and take her arm as she smiles;
together we escape the gathering rain.
We steal into the subway
with our fresh market purchases,
and I leave my misgivings on the street
as she softly whispers
Cara mio...
© 2003 Carin
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