Crepapelle (there is a little fork in us all)

Italians are pigs
c'e una forchetta
in everyone

women like carving
naked yellow onions
with butter knives

tear drops on table
lo spirito santo
tied up and scored

saffron threads muffle
all salt cured and waiting
wild boar mouth

al crepuscolo
scamorza on the hearth
thinner than skin

una vecchia
piccolo coltello
slippery tongue

without the madonna
la zuppa di pane
cannot be made

tu ha bisogna
di tutto il cuore
to break good bread

come se dice
where would one find baked goods
in this city?

lacrime christi
in bocca al lupo
your hand in mine