This was originally published years ago at Six Sentences. I have slightly revised it since then, but I think the revision makes it more of story and less of a prose poem.
There are no bakeries outside San Marco in 1968, no fish markets or butchers, only tobacco fields and salted meats between Carmine’s and the piazza. Dirt roads spread like long brown leaves from my cousin’s to the church-square and we ride to town on ox carts and warping wooden wheels.
I give my aunt a big roast in the cool dirt kitchen where summer meats are hanging. At dinner there’s a small cut roasted and I ask about the rest. Three quarters of my trophy, cured, turns above the table. Flies land on the slivers Zizi portions, oblivious and greedy. Li mericani! she says, forgiving my abuse.
All rights Chris Cocca, but do feel free to share, and, please, do comment.