Grandma used to worship Jerry Vale
and when he crooned There goes my heart,
there goes the one I love, she would cry
as she sang along to the spinning vinyl, cry
as her red sauce simmered on the burner,
bubbled over, stained the stovetop,
the wallpaper, even her housedress
painted with plush purple grapes
and olive trees. I wonder if that song
made her yearn for a long-ago love,
some dark-eyed, lush-lipped Romeo
she left behind in Calabria just before
she boarded the big ship, huddled
in steerage, crossed that roiling sea.
Irene Fick lives in Lewes where she is active in two writers’ groups, leading poetry free writes, participating in critique sessions, workshops, readings. Her poetry has been published in journals such as Poet Lore, Gargoyle, as well as Panoply. Her first two chapbooks, published by Broadkill Press and Main Street Rag, each received first place awards from the National Federation of Press Women.