LAWRENCE DI STEFANO

A Personal History of Olive Oil

Descending the spiral
staircase from the sun
deck, half-drunk
glass of chianti in hand,
brown skin glistening
of oil, my Grandpa
would sing to me
in that language
—the same he spoke
to Dad—over more
red wine and hand-
embroidered tablecloths
my grandma made,
which depicted the hills
of where they’re from,
where the breath
is of Adriatic salt,
and brown-orange
arcs of brawny, knotted
olive trees stand—silvery
with green leaves
perpetually renewing
themselves in the threading
which lay over the living
room table. Those trees,
brought up not to bush
by ancient farmers,
but to a standing upright,
to a supplication, arms
raised up, fruiting with
green colored circles of
tireless needlework,
appeared as villagers
hand and hand on the hills,
looking up, bearing olives.
In the bluish cloth
of sky, she embroidered
the sun, and in the sun
was a face looking onto them.
The old Italians believed
that olive oil was the secret
to eternal life. I remember
Grandpa would drink some
everyday from a small glass
he kept in the cupboard
next to the crucifix
He would say to me,
Figlio mio, with this drink,
I live a million years.
He’d hold up the little cup
of chartreuse liquid, sun
showing through,
dip his finger in and
touch it to my forehead,
Salute! then he’d drink,
climbing the spiral,
singing, rising into the white
summer light.

Lawrence Di Stefano is a writer and photographer currently enrolled in the MFA program at San Diego State University. His poems have most recently appeared in the Gold Man Review, The Roadrunner Review, and in The Shore. He likes to roller skate.