Gabriella Brand

Literature Today, An International Literary Journal, put out a call for “The Stories We Carry”. I am pleased to see my poem “Maria Callas at the Pool” included in the latest edition. (And yes, I know, Maria Callas was Greek, not Italian, but you get the point. ) Read it here: http://literaturetodayjournal.blogspot.com or below:

MARIA CALLAS AT THE POOL

There were always crumbs on the table. Because of Papa’s bread.
Hard, crusty, oblong Italian bread. Because Papa was Italian and proud.
Proud of Dante and Caravaggio, proud of Tony Bennett and Perry Como,
proud of that bread.
I hated that bread.
Our Father, give us this day our daily….but not that Italian bread, please.
I longed for Wonder Bread, like my friend Annie Rutherford ate.
Maybe if I could eat soft, sliced, rectangular white bread my skin would lighten.
Mrs. Rutherford wouldn’t call me “swarthy”.
Maybe I’d be blond and blue-eyed like Annie and her sisters.
Maybe my vowel-studded name would change.

At school, when I said my father was a musician,
a teacher asked, with a smirk, if he were an organ grinder.
I blamed the bread,
even though that teacher had never seen our table, with Papa at the head,
his cufflinks sparkling, his mustache trimmed, holding court,
enjoying the giardiniera, swimming in olive oil,
the after-dinner cheese, as pungent as a pig pen.
Italians have been eating Taleggio since the 9th century, said Papa.

But this was the 20th century.
Mrs. Rutherford said Italians couldn’t join the swim club,
although I could come as a guest.
I packed a lunch, enough for everyone.
Italians never skimp on food, said Papa.
Of course, there were crumbs, falling on my bathing suit, on my lap,
on the flagstones around the pool.
I don’t remember if I had a good time that day.
I only remember a blue jay flying over the fence,
chirping and trilling like Maria Callas, pecking all the crumbs away.