the restless crescent

I’m not sure why

it’s harder for me to write

in joy

than in pain.

I don’t have any

preoccupation

restless attachment

wondering if

my feelings are matched

or returned.

All I have

is the way

you leaned in to kiss me.

The memory of standing

in the stairwell

holding my gaze

to share you’re not dating

anyone else.

All I have

are the hands

that didn’t let go of mine

from that first kiss

in the middle of your kitchen.

I’m not sure how write

in joy.

You have an accent

your eyes linger

like they want to see.

Like they want to remember.

You have hands that are gentle

intentional.

You remember details.

You follow up.

I wonder

if someone like me

flawed and direct

could attract someone

in two months.

I’m taken back at the idea

that you’ve not reflected

or considered

or inspired

a note

or a poem

or paragraph

while I’ve written about you

every day

for two months.

I’ve written about you

since the night I thought

you were something other

than you turned out

to be.

I met you on April 1st.

You approached me after my set

in the way I knew you would.

Head down, quiet.

Timid.

You said I was a good writer.

You complimented my first piece,

the ones with the numbers.

I wrote that piece knowing you would.

And I wanted to know what it felt like

to sit and watch me

as I stood in the light

reading words meant for your ears alone.

I looked up as I read my last piece

and intentionally

locked eyes

with yours.

You looked sad

and serious

and you were leaning in

as if you were trying to memorize

every word I said.

You got the message.

And pulled away, as I knew you would.

I still hoped.

I hoped you would feel

inspired to want to

wrap my world in your

arms and make peace

with the feelings between us.

I hoped

you’d say something to

challenge my perspective

on what happened

and did not happen

between us.

And I gave you the chance.

Many, in fact.

I hung around until you left.

I made myself available

as I did from the moment

I introduced myself to you.

“Your writing is beautiful,”

you said.

I know. I know it is.

I really thought you were different.

Did I pick you out because you were unavailable, too?

I felt your words had emotion behind them.

Maybe I wasn’t listening deeply enough.

I won’t convince you either way.

You decided this

before you met me.

And maybe ghosts reside in your heart

ones you haven’t made peace with.

I hope you find enough ground

to feel safe letting another in.

It seems that

in keeping people at a distance

they leave in the end.

A self-fulfilling prophecy.

Perhaps you said those things

to be kind.

Or maybe they were your truth.

Either way,

I really wish your heart had room for me.

I’m no exorcist.

And my light

shines too bright sometimes

in dark corners.

I can’t dim it, though.

Not even for you.

After I leave your place,

I head to the water.

I’m not ready to

walk with this

knowing that our brief

encounters are over.

I sit in the heaviness of it

equally as freeing for me

as I know we negotiated

the best we could.

At the water I let out

some of my own ghosts.

I see them for what they are.

And once the hope dissipated,

I see you with clear eyes.

Kind and gentle.

Perhaps lost in your own head.

I can’t pull out of you words I’d like to hear.

I can’t hope you’ll become

something you are not.

Despite the release,

I still have hope you won’t become

yet another ghost

my words try their best

He sits at the kitchen table

a tall glass of homemade wine

remains untouched in front of

the tv he does not watch;

he’s somewhere in his own mind instead.

When I enter the room he stands

wraps me in the arms

that have grown weak with age

and yet could still hold up my

whole world if I asked.

Years ago, I’d fill the space

with too many words

with questions

anything to avoid silence.

It’s my way of making contact.

I fill the space

so as to not leave room

to let the other notice

the void I fear is inside.

Today though,

today I approach him quietly.

“Nanno,”

I say.

There are no words to

right what’s happening

around him.

After he embraces me

he pulls out the chair next to him.

I sit

I look at him

I don’t want to miss a moment.

Suddenly, he says,

“I love you.”

I am disarmed.

My Nanno,

as caring as he is,

isn’t a man of affectionate words.

His love is spoken through actions.

“I love you, too.”

Down the hall,

my Nanna rocks back and forth

calling for her brother

that died decades ago.

This is the woman

my Nanno refuses

to sleep anywhere

but next to her.

Even if she stays up all night,

crying. Begging for help.

Pleading for answers

none of us can provide.

He remains by her side,

in a recliner chair because

there is not enough room

in their family room for

much more than

the hospital bed she lays in.

We are silent

as we pretend to watch the screen

in front of us.

He hands me a piece of bread,

some hot peppers he cooked.

I start to realize

that the hardest part

of watching my nanna die

isn’t just the pain she is in

or the way dimentia

torments her waking moments.

It’s watching my Nanno

lose his wife.

Most of my life

as I’d leave after a visit,

he would walk me to the porch

kiss my cheek.

“We love you,”

he’d say.

We.

Today is the first day

I ever heard him speak

in the first person

about the way he felt about me.

And Ive concluded this isn’t an indication

of the depth of his love for his granddaughter,

but the representation of his knowing

that he soon, after 68 years of marriage

will no longer have his partner.

He said I.

He used I.

He once described how he hoped

I’d grow to support myself

by knowing myself fully.

I believe he meant

for me to never lose sight

of who I am, no matter who I choose

to partner with.

He’s seen too many women

in his life

lose their selves

in the duty to another.

And I believe him,

except in this case

in his case,

it doesn’t seem beautiful

or right

for him to find himself.

He knows what he’s losing

I notice

my favorite time to write

is during the in between.

I park outside my place

coming from

and I sit in my car

not wanting to move

on to the next.

So I sit and feel.

And most of the time

I don’t want what comes

I don’t want the wonder

and the regret

the sadness

the emptiness.

So I pull out my phone

open to a blank note

and I bleed out

what I don’t want inside.

And tonight

is one of those nights

where my brain lingers

too long on thoughts

that tear me apart

that question my reality

my very existence.

And it’s here in this parking space

that I remain

until I can gather the energy

to move on to the next

to engage

to challenge

thoughts that make me

want to stay in the dark

and be silent

the day after intense connection

and losing myself in your eyes.

It feels like a withdrawal;

Emptier than before

the way you stop time when we’re together.

I won’t talk about

the way I get into my head

only to be pulled back into the moment

by your eyes on me

your hands on my body

stroking me like I’m treasure.

I won’t write about

the way you laugh at my jokes

banter with me

call me on the ones that go too far.

I won’t share

the way it felt

when you looked me in the eyes

as you took my clothes off

asking me with your attention

if this was ok.

I won’t write about

the way you tasted me

and kissed me after.

I won’t discuss

the desire I felt to please you

to make you feel as wanted

as you were.

I won’t say

that instead of looking up at the ceiling

or at your phone

or at the clock

you stayed with me, moment to moment

making a night of our 3rd introduction.

I won’t write about

the ways you kissed me

your attentiveness to my

breath.

I won’t write about any of this

because I don’t want this

to be the only time

Granddaughter of immigrants

daughter of assimilation, my Italian blood

runs through the shuttered steel mills

and the estates of men who owned them.

Nanna’s hands worked mountains

planted sustenance, raised her siblings.

Prepared for voyage,

when Italy couldn’t hold their dreams.

They crossed the Atlantic and grew

on the outskirts of a city

that churned grey day and night.

I grow into a city where the bridges

are painted gold, and the landscape

more green than grey. Separated

we are all trying.

In this city, murky rivers

navigate space for the new

and the old, the haves and the have

nots, a present

of “who do we want

to be?”

The granddaughter of immigrants

and the hope that came with work,

I make my home in Pittsburgh.

I bridge