She took to the road early, turning her face East
Away from the small railroad town where her immigrant grandfather
Sold groceries to cowboys and laborers
                        But no one recognized her name.
Arriving in her youth, she tentatively placed her feet down as divining rods
On the narrow cobblestones Paul Revere rode.
                        No one there had shared steerage with her family.
Dinner tables piled high with Sunday's best were long since covered with asphalt
                        in the city with broad shoulders.
Only drowsy, wine-soaked eyes met hers along the Chesapeake.
Bowing her head, she passed the old flagship church in South Philly.
True north she found his store at the edge of the market,
Falling out from the rest of the buildings like a torn piece of lace.
                        Shiny cannoli tubes, stock pots, strainers and randomly hung
                        Yellowing photos of boxers past their price, Mussolini and the Pope
Her hand closed around his cigar stained, sausage fingers, his sweater's
                        unraveling cuffs
Comparing origins, he had, in fact, heard her name before.
Turning to her Irish immigrant husband, the shopkeeper asked,
                        Did you get permission to marry one of our girls?
A familial smile parted her lips as
The small Calabrian dove in her breast eased it's fluttering--
                          folded back its wings, and calmly closed its eyes to rest.
-Mary Ann Adams

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