A love poem to Edwina Salsiccia-

In August of 1963 I gathered the things I’d need for art school;

pens, pencils, drawing pads, little bristle brushes I used in order to

add color to the numbers of an eventually pleasant scene.

I'll need rags from under the sink, lots of erasers, and

I'll take with me that photo of you, Edwina, the one where

you’re sitting by my side at the folding banquet table 

during the "installation of officers" at the Sons of Italy Hall

when my father was presented with a plaque honoring him

for being the Italian-American man of the year, and, ohh...

how can I leave you now, Edwina, only to make my pictures

look a little better, or maybe to experiment with adult women

who know where to go and what to do when they get there.

but–– I don’t know, and I don’t care about any of that.

Edwina, what I know is..I'll sorely miss the hypnotic appeal

of your lazy eye masking the blueness found in your good eye,

the softness of your skin, that river of skin above your blood-

colored elbow running northward to the little brown mole

on your shoulder, (how its long black hair whispers beneath my breath)

and  your drenched, exploring tongue rolling around inside my arid

mouth as if searching for something unknown and yet desired;

a new kind of water. O, Edwina! the honeysuckle lick across your knees,

the smear of your breath as hot as the tailpipe exhaust of a souped-up

'57 Chevy and this is not meant to be vulgar and only I know why

one breast rested higher than the other one–– but that's the way of it sometimes and it's ok because I'm off to become historically significant

and  it's so long for now and who knows, maybe forever and a day,

my dear Edwina Salsiccia.