I practice enunciating my neighbor’s name,
add in our roofer’s, Francis Covone,
then the poet’s, Clare Rossini,
the director’s, Roberto Rossellini.
I like to say names that break hard, rise and fall,
trill in passing, end on a beginning note.
David tells me of his relations: Arcangela
Leonetti, grandmother; Felicé (meaning happiness)
Domenico Capella, his father; two uncles,
Arrigo Gudaboni and Enos Cappazucca.
On a single day last week, Giorgio Piscottano
and Pasqualina Crucitti died in Glastonbury.
I buy pizza at Lisiano’s: no idea who Lisiano is,
but Sempronia and Pietro Bonaquisto run the place.
My daughter married a Garofalo, which means
carnation. I cast a charm so they’d name their son
Giovanni, but they thought Giovanni “too ethnic”.
The man installing our furnace is Antonio Silverio.
Yesterday, idling behind his truck––
Silverio Mechanical, LLC––
I tripped the tongue fantastic.
Novarese, Pecoraro, Pellegrini, Santangelo,
Castiglione, Cavalieri––are there Italian names
that don’t end in a vowel?––
Annunziata, Morazzini, Buonfiglio?
One feels drunk saying them, all those eses,
and ellis, and glios and ittis.
The suffix ucci signifies descendent of and a di before
means son or from, thus di Beneditto means Benson.
Said rapidly and repeatedly, Vincinanza sounds like
a steam train gathering speed; Torockio––train at full
throttle––Pandolpho (drawn-out), train into station.
Published at ConnotationPress.com
Poet, Painter, Mentor