Poetry (inspired by Italian holiday dinners)

The Fish

is chopped

a circle of fleshy pink shards

surrounded by metallic black olives,

artichoke hearts, and cherry tomatoes

the fish

breaks from black shells

dancing with the smell of parmesan and Dove soap in the kitchen

twirling around a pink speckled tabletop with a chrome edge

and chairs, their bases curved underneath,

mimic the chubby legs that wave back and forth waiting for

the fish

breaded and fried

oregano parsley and a lemon wedge

artfully arranged in crisp tentacled mounds

broken apart by tiny fingers that snatch at the golden rings

the fish

simmering in the recipe from the old country

clam shells clang against the side while

sauce bubbles and splatters in a dented dull silver pot

voices rise in the dining room next door, calling for

the fish

white and steaming, bloated with breading

tied together by white strings and a single toothpick

pungent and fat overflowing from their china

Tiny cheeks redden matching the sauce in the humid room

perspiration drips down the windows catching

the reflected streetlamps  white and silver against the black Passaic sky

the fish

submerged in gravy

lowered into china bowls

small pink squares stick to threads of spaghetti

slurbed up into hungry mouths

fare la scarpetta with bread that breaks apart

soggy and heavy with butter and red sauce and

the fish

* * *

Gardenia (For Grandma Bea)

She loved me first

the oldest and the youngest

joy through the antiseptic hallways

running

white sneakers colliding with pristine floors

shout from the rooftops

to the masses that the new

She is here

Stocking feet slide

ballet dancing over hardwood floors

curtseying to generations

(the hand carved couch, the Lladro Madonna)

Abracadabra and broccoli vanished from the bone china

reappearing years later

compost in the kitchen plants

Genesis of a Christmas tradition

Bubbling crimson sauces

witch's brew of oregano basil and bright red orbs

this is how you saute like Non-Non

this is how you mince like Aunt Glore

But for dessert

The secret no one else knows

guarded

high in the castle of her memory

moat and unicorns optional

Image of a shrinking giantess

fermenting in the waning sun

eyesight worn on

white dresses and pink scalloped edges

patchwork quilt for the wedding day

and everything with the same signature

Made With Love

Frost creeps in on hot

flashes

of fur coats, gold jewelry, and perfume

Petals curling as they succumb to the

winter moon's embrace

last of the great matriarchs

bows quietly with the grace

of a queen

I don't normally write poetry on here, but I recently was reworking a couple of pieces, and wanted to post them.  The first, The Fish, is about the "Seven Fish Dinner" that my Italian family creates each Christmas Eve ( over the years, there have been various incarnations of varying proteins at this dinner).  
The second, Gardenia, I wrote several years ago about my Grandma Bea (now affectionately known as "GG" by my daughters).   She has dementia, yet she still knows us most of the time (I've been called my mother, sister, and even daughter's names over the years), and most of the things I wrote about in here are instances she would recall with a smile.

Soundtrack

1983- Frank Oz's voice floats out of the Playschool record player, singing about the trouble with being green, as I collapse in a heap after spinning circles in the living room.   The oriental rug becomes a magic carpet as it bucks and sways with the Earth.  My little sister pokes her bald head out of the orange plastic tent and pounces with roar, a tiny living doll for me to wrestle with.

1987- We pound our lunchboxes to the tune of I Got My Mind Set On You while the wheels of the bus spin beneath our seats.  I poke my tongue through the holes left by my vacating baby teeth and smile watching my best friend's braids bounce up and down.

1990- My uncle drops his voice, rocking "I'm a soul man.. duh nuh nuh nuh" at the side of Jim Belushi's grave on Martha's Vineyard- a brief tribute, complete with dancing.  Giggling, we solemnly leave flowers, grass, and various rocks we've found on the headstone, while my dad tapes the whole scene.

1993-  "You have to hear the whole thing- we're taking the long way home," my dad shouts over the epic guitar riff from Freebird that pulsates through the car.  I stick my head out the window and close my eyes, the wind whooshing my hair out of my face as I feel music for the first time.

1995- Eric Clapton serenades as I drag the tall boy with the long black hair to the dance floor.  He tells me I don't have to stand on tiptoe, but when I shrink back to my normal height, he says maybe I should.  The man in the song sings about the wonder of it all while I put my arms around his neck, and feel safe, like I'm home

1997- I stand on a stage and electricity shoots out of my fingers. The calm before the storm, and I know-it's been coming for some time-what "real" is. The stage lights flood my vision, the people dissolve into a shadow, and I reach for his hand to guide me through.

1997- Stumbling up the metal stairs on the boat, tears blur my vision, and the movement of the post-graduation cruise and the realization that "it's over" make me feel a little sick.  In the darkness, an arm reaches out around my waist, guiding me to the throngs of dancing teens on the deck, and I turn into warmth and comfort as Hard To Say I'm Sorry blares out of the DJ's speakers.
  
1998- He doesn't want the world to see me, and I don't think that they'd understand, but with whisky on his breath, and his palm against the back sliding door, I sneak him into the dark house and over to the couch.  He puts his arms tentatively around my waist, ensnaring my fingers with his, and we curl up watching the lead singer of the Goo Goo Dolls run through a dark tunnel on MTV, neither of us wanting to admit there's a shelf life to whispers and hiding out.  

1999- Pushing the door open, I see the broken shell of my sister crying into the fish-patterned quilt on her bed.  Jerry Garcia sings about taking his daughter home as I cradle her in my arms and our sobbing melds to a hushed crescendo, knowing Daddy's never going to be right there beside us again.

2000- We bounce around the car, while The Watermelon Crawl reminds us we aren't in the north country anymore.  Blue Ridge Mountains make way for statues of Elvis and a southern drawl while we laugh and draw signs, cruising in our topless car through the Deep South.

2004- Elphaba is defying gravity as I speed west toward the possibility of everything.  Her voice drains into Julie Roberts crooning about breaking down, and I have to stop myself from pulling a u-turn in middle America, reminding myself for the thousandth time that you regret the things you never try, not the ones you do.  


2007- The colored leaves softly swirl around my feet as my heels sink into the soft ground.  My mother's hand holds tight as she whispers "no crying", and the strains of "Storybook Love" cue our walk.  Looking up as we round the corner, I can see my future husband's smile, and my happy ending.

2010- My daughter rests her head on my shoulder, her boundless energy curbed for the moment by my voice singing about jet planes and how I'll never let her go.  I breathe, thankful for this moment, for our lives, and think how close I came to losing both.

2012- A baby cries, interrupting Ella Fitzgerald, her namesake, as she enters the world.  The nurse towels her off, and my husband places her on my chest, and I think how perfect she is, how she stops crying at my touch, and how lucky I am that with this one, there are no complications.

2014- Belting "I'm The Only One", we cruise in a black Subaru under the bright blue sky. Reveling in a road trip to another country, we pull off the road towards a sign for homemade mustard and blown glass, regaling each other with tales of our former lives, when we were younger, wilder, and totally free.

My Notes: I've updated this, fixing the language and adjusting pieces, while adding in new memories.  I felt it only fair to reshare, as I made my students write their own versions in class, and it inspired me to revisit my own.  The original intro, and then the newly revamped soundtrack, are below.

I started this on the 14 year anniversary of losing my dad.   It's such a euhpemistic term- lost.  As though somehow we will find our dead again some day.  I hope that somehow, we will.  I'd love to know Dad's take on my kids, life trajectory, and the Yankees' championships that have happened since his passing.  But the afterlife and religion, and spirituality and mythology, can wait for another day.

Thinking about the brevity of life inspired me to re-read a short piece,  Soundtrack by LisaGroen Braner, something I was introduced to during one of my Master's classes.   If you haven't read it, take a moment and treat yourself.  In homage to that work, and to the memories that I've been mulling for the last few months as I worked and reworked my own piece (giving myself until Father's Day to complete it).   I created the following.