Tag Archives: poetry

Rats

If you rub a mouse on the nose,
It will pee in your palm.
I poke the moist, fuzzy snout
Then set it on Marian’s backpack.
She hated me, deserved the dark
Droplet trickling down the monogrammed leather
Maybe her bag would discolor, orange to purple
Maybe it’d waft a sour smell, everyone thinking
Marian doesn’t shower, Marian has B.O.!
All the mice liked me
If I were the Pied Piper,
They’d prance faithfully after my panpipe
I put a satiny one in my pencil box
It was April Fool’s Day
Mrs. Chanda taught math next period
I waited until the class settled, and winked
My best friend giggled when
The mouse darted under the tables
Blurred toward Marion’s foot
She stood up and screamed
Perched atop her chair like
Dumbo balancing on a tight rope
I snickered and pointed
I hated Mrs. Chanda, too
We called her Fungus Fingers
Her nails were grimy, concrete gray
Like sticks of string cheese
Left to mold in the vegetable drawer
A chalk allergy, she claimed
Of course we knew better, whispers circled
Hooted at her daughter’s photograph
Fat and ugly, it chimed, greasy hair and glasses
Happy, I was having fun
In the grocery store, Kroger’s
My cousin Kevin, we ogled
Rainbow bins of gummi bears, bubble gum
Foil-wrapped hearts and stars
Let’s get some, he insisted,
Grandma will let us buy it
And shoveled a wad of chocolate into his pocket
Of course. nodding, the same I
Plunged my hand into the Hershey Kisses,
Tucked my reward inside my jacket and
Kept walking away, chin high.
Soon after, Grandma found out,
I don’t remember how she knew,
Just that we emptied our pockets out
Sneaky, sliding the sticky wrappers into
A trash can, before anyone could see.
My cheeks flushed red, I knew
Stealing was wrong.
Grandma dropped me home that day,
Mentioned nothing about the shopping trip
My mom hugged me, sent me inside
Maybe she thought I was too young
To tell between right and wrong,
I didn’t know the difference, really
Only knew the churning of a stomach choking vomit.

April 30, 2002

Much to my amusement, this piece went on to win a Columbia Scholastic Press award in the “humor” category.

Arqua Petrarca: Love, Wine and Petrarch


Clockwise: the entrance to Petrarch’s home; 13th century Venetian school fresco inside the Santa Maria church; Petrarch’s tomb; pomegranates growing on a roadside tree

Se ti agita sacro amore di Patria, t’inchina a queste mura ove spirò la grande anima il cantor dei Scipioni e di Laura. If you are moved by the sacred love of country, bow down before this wall where a great soul, the singer of Scipio and of Laura passed away.
-Inscription at the house of Petrarch

One of the best parts about living in Italy is that the country has immense historical and cultural wealth, simply by virtue of having advanced civilizations living here for eons. You can drive into almost any random small town in Italy and discover a Baroque church, a medieval castle, a Renaissance marble sculpture…try doing that in the United States and you’ll find a McDonald’s parking lot. Thus, I am often afflicted with country-envy when I speak to Italians, who don’t even bat an eye as they point out the astronomy tower that Galileo conducted research in, while my jaw drops in excitement. On the other hand, the other day I started grilling Valeria on the history of the Italian republic and it went something like this:

V: You know how every other street is named Garibaldi? That’s because Giuseppe Garibaldi was the one who led the drive for the unification of Italy in 1861.
Me: Oh, 1861? To me, that year signifies the start of the American Civil War. Wait a minute, modern Italy was founded in 1861? Then I shouldn’t feel bad, my country is older than yours after all!
V: …I guess you could look at it that way.

Rivalries aside, Valeria was kind enough to act as a guide and host her flatmates in Veneto for a few days. Veneto is a region in northeast Italy, where Valeria and several previous generations of her family grew up. It is most famous for the canal-lined city of Venice, but we were taking some time to explore the Colli Euganei (Euganean Hills), known for being a center of moscato wines. We wandered through Monselice and Este, paused to ogle at the castles, and eventually made our way to Arqua Petrarca, so named because it is the deathplace of Petrarch.
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