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Pina torna a casa

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself.
-Carol Ann Duffy, "Prayer"

N'copp' u chian' di Masc',
my old street.

I remember how I washed the clothes, hung them to dry,
made pasta for the day, everyday.
Cavatiell' or tacchozz',
noodles I shaped with my thumbs.
On the days I tired of that I made linguine,
cut into long snakes with my dull pasta knife.

Now I am the dust on these stairs,
this house, my old balcony.
My days here were tiring. Seven babies.
It's good to be here as a spectator.
The bones of this house hold the stories of me;
an old book I hope someone will find and read.

Whenever a fesc_te da Madonn' du Carmine happens—
the one festival celebrated outside my door—
I am there.
No matter how dead I am,
I am faithful.
The people of the town wonder
who gave the Madonna such pretty roses.

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