Mother Country, 1912

 

We leave our mother country

like farfelle breaking from cocoons,

drying our wet, crumpled wings 

outside the white shell.

Too early.

It is still winter, look at the

ice sliding in the river below.

We cross the ocean

the way flowers do,

bleached by salt

and soaked in the white

foam of sickness,

our nectar

a memory in the old country.

We write our names on a long

list. Our wedding: March, too

early for spring. Our race: Italian,

long faced. Our name: Filippi,

not Philips. F-I-L-I-P-P-I.

We build our casa

with beams and bed frames.

We keep our pennies in a jar,

pennies from coal heaps  

and cindering lungs.

But we nurse our memories

where our hands grow strong:

Palenta, to slice for the children.

Chicken, their necks to wring.

Grapes, to crush under our feet

for grappa. We hide the barrels

in the woods.

We rub our rosaries, shine

our shoes, and sing farfelle

songs. The children echo

in honey voices and sleep

like wild flowers,

soft faces yawning

into summer.

But sometimes at night

we rock in our sleep

the way we rocked on the sea,

wings full of ice,

aching for spring.

Original Version:

 

                                   

I. Farfelle, 1912

 

We leave our mother country

like farfelle breaking from cocoons,

drying our wet, crumpled wings 

outside the white shell.

Too early.

It is still winter, look at the

ice sliding in the river below.

We cross the ocean

the way flowers do,

bleached by salt

and soaked in the white

foam of sickness,

our nectar

a memory in the old country.

We write our names on a long

list. Our wedding: March, too

early for spring. Our race: Italian,

long faced. Our name: Filippi,

not Philips. F-I-L-I-P-P-I.

We build our casa

with pennies for beams

and bed frames. Pennies

from carving coal heaps  

with cindering lungs.

But we nurse our memories

where our hands grow strong:

Palenta, to slice for the children.

Chicken, their necks to wring.

Grapes, to crush under our feet

for grappa. We hide the barrels

in the woods.

We rub our rosaries, shine

our shoes, and sing farfelle

songs. Carmella, three, sits

on a knee, claps and flaps

her tiny arms.

II. Carmella, 2012

Come in, sweetie, sit down.

Frankie can grab you some milk from the fridge,

goat’s milk. Try some. Mama mia, it is good. From

the little store.

I had a little white goat growing up. She’d come running

up to play on our crooked apple tree. She was a darling.

Then dad took her away. I knew, but we didn’t ask

questions. Her tree was in the orchard by the garden

and a hole. We used magazines for toilet paper

and boiled water from the creek. A bath, once a week,

youngest first.

How do you like the milk?

We’d let ours stand, you see, and scooped the cream

off the top. Ah, then we’d spread it over homemade bread.

And how we loved to steal dad’s grappa grapes. We learned

every curse brought back from the mother country.

Do I miss Italy? Oh no, sweetie, I was never born there.

I went for the first time with Frankie, oh, fifteen years ago.

It all came back to me. That’s what Frankie says, anyway.

Mama mia, mom! He says, I couldn’t keep up with you.

All those words we spoke at home as children, sweet again

as butter on my tongue. Grazie, buongiorno, la nostra Italia,

it is the most beautiful place in the world.

Only there it all came back. Someday you must go too.

Did we like growing up here?

Well, we owned two shoes, the best pair for Sundays. Yes,

just two. I feel sorry for you children today. Too many shoes

to wear, too many dresses to want.

We were happy then.

We didn’t know any different.