by Natalie Martusciello<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
My father and his brother hovering watchfully<\/p>\n
over the hissing stovetop, raw shrimp and squid<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
falling into the yellow bath of canola oil.<\/p>\n
My sister and brother and I roaming the quiet<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
neighborhood after dark to admire the Christmas<\/p>\n
lights, glowing brightly against the indigo December<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
night and breathing warmth into the frigid air.<\/p>\n
From the opposite end of the street we can still<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
smell the savory, fattening aroma of fried seafood<\/p>\n
wafting from the window above the sink. Soon<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
we are racing back to the house, and I am not worrying<\/p>\n
about the way my stomach might bounce slightly as I run or the<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
estimated calorie count of our seven-course meal that<\/p>\n
will stretch into the early morning. I am thinking only<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
about the chocolate reindeer Aunt Mary gave to<\/p>\n
me and the lemon meringue pie and tiramisu we<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
can eat only after dinner and watching my step as I<\/p>\n
dash down the frost-covered pavement so as not to slip.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I wonder now whether my great-aunts loved or loathed<\/p>\n
their curvaceous Neopolitan bodies, whether they worried<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
about the unconcealable curves of their bellies as they<\/p>\n
bent over to retrieve the Baccal\u00e1 from the refrigerator,<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
or flaunted their figures proudly in the tenements<\/p>\n
of Little Italy the way I wear the silver Cornicello<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
around my neck, an unmistakable mark of our culture.<\/p>\n
As they posed in the black-and-white photograph beside my<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
slender grandmother on her wedding day, French blood flowing<\/p>\n
elegantly beneath her powdered sugar skin, a-line gown hugging her<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
petite waist, feminine and desirable, did they too hurt the way that I do,<\/p>\n
trapped within the riptide of perpetual comparison?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I am my great-grandfather\u2019s refusal to alter our family name<\/p>\n
upon his arrival at Ellis Island. I am the Parvotti and Caruso that crackled<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
from his phonograph and filled his living room with emotion<\/p>\n
and reverence. I am the iridescent sapphire of the Gulf of Naples.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I am the lost language my grandmother disapproved of her<\/p>\n
late husband\u2019s family using in her presence. I am the embodiment<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
of a history not entirely lost.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Natalie Martusciello is originally from Long Island, New York. She is an English major and Creative Writing concentrator at the College of Charleston. Her short story “Superstition”\u00a0was published in the spring 2021 issue of MSU\u00a0Roadrunner Review<\/em>. This is her first poem that has been published.<\/p>\n
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