then he’s taking off the oven mitt,
mouth parting, about to speak?—
Grandpa: “Pagan?! She’s a pagan?”
And there goes the grandmother,
marching over?—
“PREGNANT! ANDREW AND ALLISON ARE HAVING A BABY!”
“Wait—Grandma, no! Stop!
“Jesus Christ, no, she’s not pregnant.”
The air in the room drops dead?—
Everyone goes still?—
Then the living room explodes.
“HA! Come to momma. I want singles, tens, twenties. I don’t discriminate,” Paola says, palm opening and wiggling her fingers. “Don’t tell me I don’t know my son.”
Chairs scrape. Wallets open.
Crinkling bills. Loose change. Side bets.
Uncle John groans as he slams a twenty in her palm. Lisa’s waving a wad of twenties at her, cursing in Italian.
Aunt Fran’s rifling through her purse, muttering, “Fuck, I was so sure.”
“Just send it to my Venmo,”
Gabby says, not looking up from her phone.
Nonna jabs a finger at Andrew?—
“Eh!Adesso, you do the right thing.
“First la chiesa, then la culla.”
Andrew runs a hand through his hair,
muttering, “Sta famiglia mi fa impazzì…”
Which I’m pretty sure translates to:
my entire bloodline is unwell.
And now my brain’s doing something stupid.
It’s thinking about a house.
Some stupid place with a yard.
With real grass smelling
likechildhoodafter it rains.
