Straniero, a stranger in multiple ways—
not only managing the keys,
the stubborn power outlets,
the mysteries of the coffee-maker,
but the tongues:
Italian wraps ‘round my lingual roof
in the early hours of Lodi, morning prayer
that’s a subtle rumble to God
as I try to form the verses
(avoiding a slip in Spanish)
and smiling as the psalmist proclaims
he’s got la forza di un bufalo with olio splendente
(and I recall last night’s caprese,
the tomatoes and mozzarella in olive oil
still tickling the palate.  

Silent tombs in the chapel of St. Isidore
bear witness in carved Latin to the Irish fathers
who rest here, magister and poeta and the rest,
their deeds etched in a faraway font, forgotten
since Father Manfred dolled it out in freshman
Latin, phrases from Cicero et. al. about
amphoram sub veste, which is never carried
honeste. But here I can only guess at what’s
sub this marble floor chill in morning air.  

And then, late night, at the table:
a Polish scholar (fresh from completing
a life’s work on Alexander of Hales) shares wine
and that tasty caprese with me as I struggle
to find the right Italian words to explain and
justify my brief existence among these sages,
living and dead.