My neighbors
are leaving for Italy.
The children
of my flesh
do not speak
in full sentences. I must
think for
them, devise ingenious methods
to goad
their speech.
They don’t
know Italy,
Italian. Nor
do I. And yet their great-
great-great
grandmother
hailed from
Siciliy, driven
to Brooklyn
by an earthquake.
Our little
family still
feels the
aftershocks. The loss
of words for
the things
most loved.
