Sicilian Revenge Poem by Alicia Patti

In summer they sat on their front stoops
clad in black, chattering and bemoaning
their disenfranchised state, like crows hovering
over unwanted prey.

Long gone now, those old crones;
their strong presence on the Sicilian-
American landscape a stark memory, like the great war
they always groaned about, their adoration of
Mussolini notwithstanding.

Rolling their black knowing eyes
whenever we walked by, hand in hand, with our beaus,
Some would sign the evil eye and spit three times,
for bad luck to befall us.

One day I strolled by with my sailor brother,
home on furlough, all decked out in crispy white,
cap at a jaunty angle, shiny black shoes clicking on pavement.
I was so proud.

Then, the bomb fell: As though on signal,
three crones spat three times and signed.
I whirled around, ready for battle;
but Louis took my arm, bent and whispered
in my ear, “You’re better than that.”

Then he turned my cheek and planted a big one.
I took a peek as we walked by and saw all
three crones signing in rage. I smiled and blew them
a kiss. But my brother never saw my inbred Sicilian
revenge in the form of a gleeful two-handed evil-eye.