FEILE-FESTA
Spring 2011

Poetry

Ancestors
- R. Baldasty
Beloved Albatross
- D. Bastianutti
From Trã Bãn
- K. Cain
The Current (La Corrente)
- L. Calio
Down with the King
- M. Cirelli
May Mass – 1957
- L. Dolan
America
- G. Fagiani
Persephone’s Devotion to Her Mother
- M. Fazio
Bastardu
- V. Fazio
Christmas
- D. Festa
L’Amour, L’Amour on Summer Afternoons (L’Amour, L’Amour D’estati Filuvespiri)
- M. Frasca
Sgrìob
- S. Jackson
Sirocco
- W.F. Lantry
Little Swift
- R. León
Since You Asked
- M. Lisella
Dublin 2010
- V. Maher
39 Fifth Avenue
- C. Matos
Sunrise in Sicily
- A. O’Donnell
Watching Monzú at Work
- F. Polizzi
L’incontru (Rendezvous)
- N. Provenzano
Propriu Quannu Sta Scurannu (When the Day Is Almost Over)
- N. Provenzano
Bones (Le Ossa)
- D. Pucciani
Things
- E. Swados
Mount Etna
- G. Syverson
Poet Jack Foley Says, “We’re Not Writing for Eternity
- J. Wells
Lord of Winter
- A. Zanelli

FEILE-FESTA
Spring 2011

Prose

Review of Frank Ingrasciotta’s play, BLOOD TYPE RAGU
- L. Calio
Dinner for Three
- D. De Santis
Notes
- A. Guruianu
Review of Carol Bonomo Albright & Christine Palamidessi Moore’s anthology, AMERICAN WOMAN, ITALIAN STYLE
- R. Holz
Review of Joanna Clapps Herman’s memoir, THE ANARCHIST BASTARD, GROWING UP ITALIAN IN AMERICA
- R. Holz
Exiles in the Lost World of Italian Food in America. Review of Anthony Di Renzo’s BITTER GREENS
- M. Lisella
Reverbs
- A. Morazán
The Bearded Woman of Inis Mor
- D. Schummer

Featured Artists
Andy Kover

Richard Holz

BIOGRAPHIES

Contributors

Gil Fagiani

America Cuncetta lays out trays of crushed tomatoes to be dried on her fire escape. She’s making Sunday sauce for her husband’s family, fifteen mouths of perpetual hunger. Above Ninetta holds a spray bottle her mother uses when ironing. She sprays out the window, watching droplets gleam in the sunlight, laughs when a gust of wind blows water in her face. “Hoooh! Assassino! Assassino!” Cuncetta bellows, as Ninetta’s mother runs into the room. “Ch’è successo?” she says, sticking her head out the window. “My tomatoes are being ruined by one of your brats,” Cuncetta yells. “Mannaggia ‘merica! – Damn America!” Ninetta’s mother cries. Why did my husband drag me to this infernal place, far from my village, with its soothing sounds of sea waves and church bells, its lemon orchards and honey lumps of figs, away from papa and mamma my brother and sisters. She stamps her feet, bites her knuckles, grabs the bottle out of Ninetta’s hands, slapping her in the arms, face, legs, leaving her to whimper all afternoon in a corner of the hallway.