Rome

Our last night in Rome;
it's the kind of June night 
where beads of sweat 
drip down linen sundresses,
where the tar in the street 
gives like marshmallow 
under sandaled foot,
and the sidewalks feel like 
you're already in the brick oven 
that your Michelin star-chasing meal 
will come from,
once you round the corner 
and take your seat.

Escorted into the limestone cave 
that serves as a dining room, 
candles flicker, 
shadows cast mystery over our 
linen and cotton menu cards.

My mother pokes hers in delight.
"'Mais en tre modi!'"
"I will have that. To share; for the table!"
She declares this, in English, to the server.

"Signora, mmm—emmm." 
"Are you sure?"
The waiter shifts in their loafers.
"Please be aware, mmm? 
"This dish, it is — How to say? 
"It is the essence of corn, 
the American maize, 
prepared three ways."

"Mom." I breathe in her ear.
"It's going to be like a simple side, 
I don't think it's going to be 
whatever you're expecting."

My mom nods back, hastily,
with big, fixed eyes and 
severe arched brows to indicate:
Yes, yes I know, I am not dense.

When the plates arrive
the server flashes 
a triple elevator eyes 
over my mother
as she sets the plate down 
in front of her.

The family stills;
sounds catch in throats. 
The plate, hitting the table
promoted us remaining diners 
to judges on Top Chef
as we peered down, 
squinting, sniffing, 
as if an elimination challenge; 
its patrons on the chopping block.

One voice cuts through 
the silent table:
"Oh my GOD!" 
My daughter cackles, 
her face breaking into angles 
that cast their own light 
in the darkened room.

"You paid THIRTY-SIX EUROS
for THAT?!"

"Mom!" my sibling cuts in.
"You ordered — a cob of corn, some mush, 
and what, seven, no, ten kernels of popcorn?
For your secondo?!
To share?!"

= = = 

When In Rome, 
it's best, perhaps, 
to stick with the cacio e pepe.
Let's leave maize 
to the new world.