Anthony Ciotoli
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Anthony Ciotoli has been teaching mathematics, and occasionally other subjects to at-risk teens for over twenty years. He is a student in the M.F.A. program at Chatham University. Anthony was born in Rome and grew up in the suburbs of New York City. He came to Pittsburgh to attend college and never left. His poetry has appeared in Italian Americana.
Melanzana Fritta, Prosciutto e Pane
Laying out the prusciutto and bread,
I watch you squeeze the garlic
press and flick the pieces into the pan
feeling the hot oil you didn’t notice splatter
onto your wrist as you glide sideways
to your right. The sliced eggplant
an aubergine stairway you disassemble
and dip in the eggs whose beating you approved
and the fresh bread crumbs that cost me
two knuckles and a touch of ridicule
in the grating.
Laying out the prusciutto and bread,
I watch you squeeze the garlic
press and flick the pieces into the pan
feeling the hot oil you didn’t notice splatter
onto your wrist as you glide sideways
to your right. The sliced eggplant
an aubergine stairway you disassemble
and dip in the eggs whose beating you approved
and the fresh bread crumbs that cost me
two knuckles and a touch of ridicule
in the grating.
Boxes
The shrieking was different with my box babies
sliding wildly. They drove, they flew pushed
around the room until the corners erupted and spilled
the little riders onto a carpet of laughter. Today
there was the white box; too small to hold
my shoes or the gathered sadness
unmoving and all the sounds
outside it. I didn’t know him, have him,
see him in his joyless, whole box
with perfect corners and quiet rider.
The shrieking was different with my box babies
sliding wildly. They drove, they flew pushed
around the room until the corners erupted and spilled
the little riders onto a carpet of laughter. Today
there was the white box; too small to hold
my shoes or the gathered sadness
unmoving and all the sounds
outside it. I didn’t know him, have him,
see him in his joyless, whole box
with perfect corners and quiet rider.
Camp
I watched the march,
the carried, crying children
the dust as they moved along.
I saw hatchlings,
maggots on the dead and undead
feasting on the feastless.
I heard the nursing,
bloated babies on withered breasts
giving only blood from cracked nipples.
I smelled death’s sweet release on living breath,
in camps where god didn’t visit
and wasn’t much expected.
But even here are lullabies
and love songs amid the wailing
plaints that shame:
our collection plate dollars
gifts to continue ministry
and goodwill bags.
I watched the march,
the carried, crying children
the dust as they moved along.
I saw hatchlings,
maggots on the dead and undead
feasting on the feastless.
I heard the nursing,
bloated babies on withered breasts
giving only blood from cracked nipples.
I smelled death’s sweet release on living breath,
in camps where god didn’t visit
and wasn’t much expected.
But even here are lullabies
and love songs amid the wailing
plaints that shame:
our collection plate dollars
gifts to continue ministry
and goodwill bags.