By Frank Modica
I am grapevines and olive trees
heavy-laden with broken promises,
working for another man’s harvest
in the hot Sicilian sun,
I am basil leaves torn in ragged strips,
scattered over meager bowls of pasta.
I am weary farmers and fishermen
toiling in the oppressive summer heat,
clutching their tools with work-worried hands.
I am a shoebox stashed in a closet;
Francesco’s Illinois Central pocket watch,
Calogero’s creased Italian passport.