ITALIAN LESSON

by Meghan Adler
2004 National Poetry Contest - First Place

It's lunchtime in August. I'm standing on the corner of Duane Street
waiting to Walk . Waiting to take my Italian friend, Valentina, to Odeon.
I want to see her eat an 18 dollar hamburger.
I want to introduce her to American mustard and potato salad.
I want her to get parsley stuck between her teeth.
To hear her ask for help.
To teach her new words.
I want her to be happy, bask
in hours of air-conditioning.
I'm sweating. Hazy sky muted yellow. Fancy work shirt sticks
to my back and it's hard to breathe.
A garbage truck passes and its loud breeze cools me.
I shake out my shirt and fan my face.
I ask her to say garbage truck in Italian.
Anything sounds beautiful in Italian, I tell her.
Camion della spazzatura, she says.
I roll the words around in my head.
Truck of trash, and remember.
I want my father back.
I want to hear him say garbage truck in French. In Yiddish.
The Latin meaning; derivative.
My father spoke four languages fluently. But never Italian.
He'd add O's to the endings of English words
and call it a day. Garbago de trucko, he'd say.
I want to hear him tell me another story.
How life in Tribeca was small then.
And the grocer tossed him an apple each day on the way to school.
And were the streets uneven? And did he help his mother?
Cup her elbow in his hand to keep her from tripping in high heels?
I am not hungry anymore. I am waiting
for a table and it's blurry and my eyes are sad.
I hear laughter from the bar. It muffles inside me.
I turn to Valentina and ask her to say two more words.
Ma dai , she pleads. I bite my lip.
How do you say, history?
How do you say, gone?