Marisa Frasca: Poems 
Sicilian Blood Oranges
| E Lucevan le Stelle |
Adults Wear Black
 Marisa Frasca recently retired
her professional briefcase to dedicate her time to writing poetry and to reviving old Sicilian folk songs. Her Sicilian poems and her English translations have appeared in Feile Festa, Voices in Italian Americana, Arba Sicula, Poetry in Performance and other literary journals and anthologies in the United States, Italy and Canada. She has given readings at The Cornelia St. Cafe Italian American Series, at the John D. Calandra Italian American Institute April Poetry Fesitival and many other venues. Sample
poems by Marisa follow:
Sicilian Blood Oranges
Every time I bled
you said
don't wash
especially your head
it's bad for you.
And another thing--
don't touch
the plants--the plants wilt,
die, when you have
the things
your things
and tighten those legs,
lower those eyes
don't stare.
Men can see,
smell, always hear
silent mating calls.
Every time I bled
I saw oranges
ripe, Sicilian blood oranges
hit the ground.
I kicked their teeth
until the blood
stopped flowing.
E Lucevan le Stelle
Stars among verses
Usher him in
Taciturn
Somber
Searching for a spot
To take me
Gently
There
Closer to shore
Where the salty air
And moonlight
Coax me
Out of character
As I do this
And that
To him
Who is little more
Than half my age
And doesn't know opera
At all
Adults Wear Black
Three days after my eleventh birthday
As father lay dead in pink powder
And mother sat broken in black
Inside a Queen's funeral parlor
As the funeral man
Said sit up front
Nearer the casket
Wait for people to come
Pay their respects
Hardly anyone came
We didn't have friends
Yet in America
Except one wreath on wire legs
With a gold message
I did not understand
As my legs tired of bending
Near a figure of wax
My fingers ran over
My pretty white blouse
Felt something foreign
Painfully tender
Sensation of swelling breasts
Unleashed an axe
Split me in half
And I wished to grow
One giant wing
Instead of two breasts
Flow low low underfoot
Into the depth
To touch you
Will you be wet when it rains?
What's growing in you
Although you are dead
Nails, hair, what else?
Is it painful?
Tender?
Don't send me back
To the pink and the black
and the mouth without song
How will I handle
America
I can't even read
And split as I am
Split as I am
Do you think about that?
Visiting time came to a close
Return at 7:00 pm
For evening prayers
To our heavenly father
Said the funeral man
As I took mother's hand
Led her outside
A war between
The cold and the dark
Was waiting to claim
What an axe had defined
On that day of All Saints
Nineteensixtytwo
When I knew not to count
On any more fathers
________________________________________________
Copyright
© 2011 by Marisa Frasca. All rights including electronic are reserved by the author.
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