• Sweet Oil

    by  • December 17, 2011 • Poetry • 0 Comments

    Smelling fragrantly through the house
    warm olive oil and garlic.
    My father taught me love
    as I’d follow the odor through
    the hallway to the kitchen.

    Grown in the Italian sun
    stirred by my father’s hands we
    relished olio by the gallons.

    In Italy I learned to drink the oil
    as it dripped from plates of fresh
    mozzarella. Newly pressed oil
    extra virgin.

    My father, wearied by the depression and WWll
    bow tie wearer, Cuban cigar lover
    valedictorian, patent holder, business owner.

    Could he imagine
    this is how I would remember him?
    Olive oil and garlic in the kitchen.

    Perbohner, Ann. “Sweet Oil.” Bloodroot Literary Magazine. Thetford Center: Potami, 2012. 49. Print.

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