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.