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Sundays at Nonna’s Arts 

Sundays at Nonna’s

My grandmother always frowned

At her reflection.

“La vecchiaia è brutta,” she would say 

With a sigh as she looked down 

At her hands,

Where she saw deep folds and wrinkles 

In her skin, 

Like they were one of my grandfather’s shirts,

Which she was unable to smooth out.


With resolve, she chose to drain the water 

From her eyes into a pot,

Where it began to boil

The raw dough she kneaded

With the valleys of her hands. 

She served us dinner with tomato sauce

From her veins,

And each dish was topped with a basil leaf

From her garden.


Once my relatives were fed,

Their stomachs began to swell,

With greed, as they asked for seconds.

Eventually, they saw their way out,

Leaving the house empty,

And my grandmother began to clean

Their mess.

After all, they always came back

When they were hungry.


By Mel Spiridigliozzi


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