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Spring 2015


The Harbor of the World
- O. Arieti
Those Italian Boys
- I. Backalenick
Friendless Featherheads
- G. Beck
- K. Cain
- J. Campbell
King Street Comanche
- B. Foster
- L. Giulianetti
Poets Out of Service
- M. Johnson
Irish Farmer
- L. Kumar
Communion Portrait
- J. Lagier
- M. Lisella
Connemara 2004
- C. Lloyd
Carrying Grandpa
- M. Lyon
The Saying of Mass
- C. Moore
Taking You home
- J. Mulligan
- P. Murray
- P. Nicholas
Resurrecting Easter Sunday
- L. Pierro
Dublin Spirts
- F. Polizzi
Nun Ponnu/They Cannot
- N. Provenzano
- K. Retzlaff
- C. Steinhoff
Strawberry Pickers, Cyprus
- J. Tarwood
Melina's Tarverna
- B. Thomas
No News
- R. Tremmel
- R. Volz
Broadway Bagel
- C. Wald
Taking My 8-Year-Old Daughter to Hear Seamus Heaney
- L. Wiley
My Mother Had a Relationship with Good Bread
- C. Young
Sicilian Traces
- A. Znaidi

Spring 2015


- J. Amato
Moving Day, 1897
- D. Corrigan
My Madeleine
- F. Dunne
A Review Of Italoamericana: The Literature Of The Great Migration, 1880–1943
- G. Fagiani
The Immigrant's Grandson
- J. Giordano
Review of The Glass Ships
- R. Crupi Holz
A Sunday Afternoon
- R. Iulo
Dark Idyll
- T. Sanfilip
The Choir Book
- G. Sullivan
Review of My Two Italies
- T. Zeppetella

Featured Artist
Richard Holz



Dawn Corrigan

Moving Day, 1897

Petey Capuano ran hard for five blocks, until he reached 39th Street. Then he slowed to a walk and rounded the corner south. He walked halfway to 9th Avenue, then peeked into the window at 446 W 39th Street.

It was a grocer’s shop. It had an orange door and one window full of apples. The other contained a pyramid of jelly jars. A sliver of sunlight just reached the window and made the round, orange bellies of the jars glow.

The shop was owned by a man named Henry Collins, an Irish Protestant, who’d emigrated to New York six years before. Petey waited until Collins was alone in his store. Then he backed up half a block and took off running again. He ran right up to the storefront, flung the door open and dashed to the serving counter, where he put his hands on his knees and stood panting.

“What ails you, boy?”

“Missus Collins [pant] sent me [pant]. Said [pant] tell you [pant] cartman [pant] stealing piano.”

“Impossible! What game are you playing?”

Petey straightened himself and took a large, shuddering breath. “Don’t you know me, Mr. Collins? I’m Eddie Burns, from 36th Street.” Collins turned a beady stare on him. Petey lowered his eyes apologetically. “My ma is the widow Burns. She can’t afford to shop here very often.”

Collins stared at Petey’s blond bowl cut, blue eyes and shabby clothes for a moment longer, then asked, “What’s this about the piano then?”

“I was walking to 39th Street to meet my friend Johnny for a game of marbles — he won my cleary shooter last week — and Mrs. Collins grabbed my arm and said I was to run and tell you the cartman was stealing the piano.” Petey shrugged. “Maybe she’s losing her marbles.”

“Shut your gob! Did she pay you?”

“She gave me a nickel.” Petey took a nickel out of his pocket and showed it to the shopkeeper, then hastily stuffed it away. “I earned it fair and square.”

“I guess you did. Bloody hell, I knew that driver was a crook! I told her to let me hire another one, but no, she had to pick the greasiest-looking dago she could find.”

Collins came around the counter. “I’ve got to go straighten this out. You stay here and watch the shop, Eddie, and there’s another nickel in it for you.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Petey asked, alarmed.

“Ya don’t do anything! Just stand there. And don’t let anybody steal anything! I’ll tell ya what, I’ll give you a dime if you can do that. That’s enough to buy yaself twenty clearys.”

Collins glared at Petey a final time from beneath his too-close eyebrows and was gone.

Petey waited until the bell had stopped jingling before responding. “Sure, you’re a right genius at spotting the greasy dagos, aren’t ya, ya dirty Prod?” he said, as he began to fill his pockets and helped himself to a quart of milk.