The Sorrowful Sweetness of Christmas Eve

Poem by Marisa Frasca

Before the octopus goes full into the old pot,
three quick-dips in boiling water with bay leaf.
One the Father, two the Son, three the Holy Ghost.
We thank the slimy creature for its sacrifice.
Eight purple tentacles, each a mini brain, shrink
beyond recognition for a Sicilian feast.  My mother
used to skin, cut and season the salty-sweet flesh
in olive oil, lemon, peperoncino. The whole house
smelled of ceremony.  I form the same rituals 
on the mollusk with high IQ.  My mother had no clue
the octopus had any brains.  I am not caught unaware.
Deep is the need to keep my mother's hands in motion.
Isn't ritual, repetition, a returning to nourishment?
I am the daughter; the storage of remembrance.

Poet and translator, Marisa Frasca is the author of two poetry collections: VIA INCANTO (Bordighera, 2014) and WILD FENNEL (Bordighera, 2019).

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