In Italia

in italia

What seems to be a little thing, can actually be even smaller than little in some’s eye. I cannot know, maybe even they don’t know. But to me, in mine own eyes, this little thing is my distinct daily. Rolling, laughing, punching, standing, walking, turning, speaking, carrying, pouring, smiling, scrubbing, finally stopping. Just so we can make an exchange.

Hardly one at that. But maybe the eggplant, lightly browned in green olives the consistency of viscous oil, can reminiscence with me; with me to you, allowing for the deep memories of wrinkled hands crusted with dried dough covering my own, to seep through. Or maybe I have forgotten the succinct punchy flavor of home.

Whatever the reason may be, you are here, as I am, breathing the same yeast heavy air sprinkled with dancing grains of semolina. Your elegant smile is placed with executed decency but your tongue rolls faintly with forgotten sounds – now that’s hardly a woman’s name. I brush it off, not believing you for a second as this exchange is almost over. Filling with disappointment, I know you have swallowed my recollections solely for their taste and not their implications.

I clear your lipstick stained glass and, rolling, laughing, punching, standing, walking, turning, speaking, carrying, pouring, smiling, scrubbing, finally stopping. Just so we can make an exchange.