EVIL EYE
Florence, Summer 2018
My family comes from magic,
thoughts into things.
The descendants of le streghe—the folklore magic,
courses through my blood.
My Papa’s Mama,
my mother’s Nana
could both give or take away
il malocchio.
Drops of oil,
a bowl of water,
the power of three,
the eye of the needle
into the other eye,
pierces the oil
if it has turned into two—
Say, “Eyes against eyes
in the holes of the eyes,
envy cracks and eyes burst,”
cut the oil with scissors,
make the sign of the cross,
yawn, banish it.
Needle and thread, carefully suspended above—
circles for girls, back and forth for boys—
still for childlessness.
When I had warts on my hands,
Papa counted them,
put a pea for each one into
an envelope,
took me for a drive in the country,
out on old 5S
where houses were sparse,
cows were plenty.
We rolled down the window,
threw the envelope out.
When someone finds it,
Your warts will be gone.
One day,
they disappeared.
That’s the way with magic.
AT THE PIAZZA DELLA SIGNORIA
dining el fresco,
in my red dress,
a cool, late summer night breeze
moves through my hair.
I swirl my Strega,
syrupy liquid clings to the sides,
the harvest yellow of saffron,
smells like anise, starts off sweet,
ends bitter in my mouth.
I suck on a sugar cube
absent-mindedly holding my cornicello
suspended from a white gold chain,
thinking of my fortuna,
of la vecchia religione
running through my veins.
I chase the last drop from my glass,
mingling bitter and sweet notes
with the last bite of sugar.
Bio:
Joanne L. DeTore, Ph. D., an Associate Professor at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, has been published in various journals and anthologies, including Reed Magazine, where she was a finalist for their Edwin Markham Poetry Prize in 2016, Beyond Words, Review Americana, Voices in Italian Americana, and Italian Americana, among a dozen others. The poems are part of a larger collection, The Color of Olives, which focuses on Italian American heritage and has yet to be published.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 