Dear Lina.

Chef of the Northern Cuisine

Oh, who has kissed those hands,

now wrinkled and peeling potatoes.

Who has held that waist

rounded and plump with age?



Why is it so difficult to look past your pot roast?



I found a forgotten photograph

The lost day at Coney Island

And in the mist of the bustling beach

you stood

Posed for the camera

One hand on hip,

and the other in your platinum curls.

Your sunglasses make you look like a movie star.

The immigrant charmed by America's lights.

And every man longed to buy you an ice cream

and died just to watch you eat it.



But those ice creams have long since melted

And Coney Island is deserted

The radiant star is in a cramped Astoria apartment,

surrounded by glasses from the World's Fair,

and the open-toed shoes of your youth.



You hear the voices of lovers in Naples

And sway to their sorrowful serenades.

You still beg your parents' forgiveness

for leaving them back in Bedonia,

and pray your rosary every night.



Lina,

I adore you.

For that Coney Island picture,

for your lipstick

and sunglasses,

For your independence,

your vibrance,

your life.



I refuse to love you for your pot roast.