Wrinkled hands relentlessly search
For the missing partner
Of my yellow striped sock,
Our daily game of hide and seek.

A timer dings! and she takes a break
To shuffle her way back to the kitchen
And stir the simmering pasta ***
She is no longer able to lift.

Seventy years of cream pies,
and mended sweaters—
La dolce vita she always says,
remembering Naples.

At a milestone where many lose hope
Grandma knows her mission is not yet finished
Because the gravy is almost ready
And that sock must be around here somewhere.

Is this what you imagined the day it snowed?
When you drove aware swearing
One day you’ll need me!
while snowflakes covered empty branches,
your lonely soul,
all else that’s bare.

It’s s’posed to be ironic
You drawled,
Over a pale green t-shirt
With the faded stain
Of the letter “T,”

That syrup-smooth tone
Even the bees recognized as sweet,
Buzzing around me as if
To catch what dripped out next.

Who would’ve thought *crawfish
Could make my stomach flip?
And could anything sound more exquisite
Than fishin’ **-wels and gaytah tay-els?

And when you paused,
For too long,
To catch your breath,
I held mine,
And prayed that you’d keep going.

Gathered daily along Via Longura
Over antipasto and a deck of fifty-two,
Surly men conspire with
The **** barista in Café Settimane
And the neighborhood nonna cursing from a window,
Even the resident pigeon lady
Atop her cobblestone perch,
But not with me, una ragazza Americana
On the 98th of a hundred day stay, and unprepared
For the faint buongiorno that came out of no where
Or the dealer who winked at me
I swear—And I settled in as a regular
With a smile on my lips, a grunt from Nonna,
My standard espresso waiting for me on the counter.

I saw you out tonight,
and you had on that terrifying mask
of “I don’t miss you”
and by now it’s molded perfectly
to the shape of your face,
it didn’t even get in the way
when you leaned over to kiss her,
as I sat across the room
longing for my mask too.

Baie dankie—thank you—
Surrounded us as we shared our lunch
With empty-handed children,
And we heard it again painting
The tiny playground for Sister Catherine,

Though my head focused on the “bye,”
Gracious and dismissive
To the nameless Americans,
Taking pictures of their town.

Baie dankie* said the woman
With liquor on her breath—
*Back to your selfies and indoor plumbing
Your clear conscience, your noble heart.

Fly away into the sun, she told me,
spread your wings and take-off
twisting and turning, dodging drops
and veering left to brush against
velvet clouds and sparkling stars,
up, up, up,—always up
and away from eager hands
reaching out to clip wings.

I lean back against the too familiar
coarseness of a British Airways chair
and recall those words,
up, up, up, she whispered,
runway wheels lifting off,
fly away into the sun, my darling,
close your eyes and never stop.