I catch every other word in Italian,
they chiacchiano and io listen 

My Papa taught me to catch flies
by quickly cupping your hands around the insect,
bringing it outside,
shaking it up in your two clenched hands,
and letting go,
watching it fly away up the path of a curly straw.

I catch every other fly.
You speak too quickly,
it flies away.
You speak too quietly,
my hands barely miss the little thing.
You mix napoletano, veneto, romano 
into your confetti-cake-language-batter,
the fly is across the room,
taunting me,
rubbing its stupid little fly hands together,
as if to imitate what I couldn’t do.

My Papa is fluent in Italian.
First generation.
He parlava on il phone per all gli years della my infanzia.
I couldn’t catch flies then.
My (English, German, Irish) Mamma took lessons for a few years,
between Pilates lessons and my sister and I’s temper tantrums.
My Mamma would throw little bits of confetti into our vanilla language batter,
vai al bagno after dinner,
lava le mani when we get home,
vai a letto around eight-thirty every night.
But what’s a command to a conversation?

My Papa never taught us to catch flies.

I lied.

I watched him.
I studied.
I took online fly-catching lessons with a woman with a terrible accent.
I took lessons on fly anatomy at the local community college.
I now miss every other fly,
the flies that my Papa didn’t teach me to catch.

My Papa can catch wasps.
My Papa is first-generation Sicilian.
Wasps are more challenging to catch.
They’re faster,
and when they sting,
they acchiananu.
My Papa learned to catch wasps before he could catch flies.
Once you can catch wasps,
catching flies comes naturally. 

I catch every other fly and shake it up the best I can,
watch it fly that curly straw pattern up into the sky.

I catch every other fly and shake it up tight,
hoping and praying that I just might
prove that my Papa wasn’t right.