Family Portrait

This is the last photograph of us all together in father’s studio.
Mother, Father, Aldo, me in the middle in that angora sweater with the Lurex thread.

The moment just before the camera flashed, I grabbed both their hands,
held hers close to my chest, his nearer my face. I knew I would always need that moment

before leaving for America, for New York City,
when part of me longed to climb skyscrapers while speaking in the language of the rolled RRR’s

and part of me would always remain behind on that island of olives and plums,
running with him in the Ragusani hills when it rained red and orange petals –

when I tried to catch the petals with my hands,
with my tongue.

Part of me would always sit on his apple green Vespa, low below his knees,
mother behind him in a flowered sundress, her head scarf beating violently in the wind

and my brother behind her, hanging with the tail light, somehow,
headed for the beach we called Scoglitti. The Boulders, Scoglitti –

when my family was still one and I belonged somewhere, whole,
familiar, as our piece of Mediterranean Sea.

Ritrattu di Famigghia

Chista e’ l’ultima fotografia di nuavutri tutti ‘nsemmula nta’ lu studio di me patri.
Me matri, me patri, Aldo, iu nta’ lu mezzu cu la magghia d’angora a filu doratu.

Lu mumento prima ca l’obbiettivu scattau, affiraiu li so manu,
chidda di idda la misi vicinu lu me pettu, chidda di iddu chiu’ vicunu la me faccia.

Sapennu ca m'avissi sempre bisugnatu ssu mumentu
prima ca partemmu ppi L'America, ppi New York,
quannu parti di me stissa aveva vogghia d'acchianari grattacieli
e di parrari la lingua cha arrotola li RRR

e parti arristau ppi sempri nta’ l’isola di alivi e di pruna,
currennu cu iddu fra collini Ragusani quannu chiuveva petali russi e aranciuni –

quannu circavu d’acchiappari li petali cu li manu,
cu la lingua.

Parti di me stissa arristau sempre assittata nta’ la Vespa virdi puma, menzu li so rinocchia,
me matri d’arreri cu lu prendisoli sciuratu, lu fazzulettu di la testa ca violentamenti sbatteva cu lu ventu

e me frati d’arreri d’ idda, appinnuluni cu lu fanalinu di cura, in qualchi modo,
diritti versu lu mari ca chiamavamu Scugghitti. Schugghitti –

quannu la me famigghia era ancora una e iu appartinevu, sana,
riconuscibbili, come lu nostru pizzuddu di Mari Mediterraniu.