John Long
For Mabel Frati Long
Take a look at the men in the old photo
pinstripes, vests, fedoras;
that’s Nonno, my grandpa, a joke
with the banana peel.
They all laugh, caught by the camera.
“What a funny guy,”
they always said.
Uncle Harry’s on the top right
on the left is Auntie Beamba—
and today’s photo captures
those same expressions.
They still celebrate family
last ones to remember
Italy, the boats.
“Don’t they still look great,”
everyone always says.
I remember Nonnie, my grandma
like a photo:
black clothes, white hair.
She gave me candy in secret,
I thought no one knew.
Nonnie spoke Italian
I understood.
She died when I was five,
I never learned more Italian.
My mother, afraid
it would hurt my English,
didn’t teach me.
“Cucciolo, non stai mai fermo,”
Nonnie always said.
Now I pose,
acting silly for a photo
in the family history.
I make jokes
for posterity, like Nonno.
I walk like Uncle Harry,
balding like him, too.
Like Nonnie, I eat Hershey Kisses
sneaking them.
“You’re Italian, Irish named,”
my mother says
from behind a camera.
My aunt always adds
“Full of blarney and antipasto.”