By Caroline Laganas

If I could serve you a buffet worthy  
   of Italian American musician  
      Louis Prima and keep you returning, 
   then I’d dig my fingers into the ground  
beneath your feet to plant the seeds to grow  
   grapes, plums, pomodori, donut peaches,  
      string beans, and a shiny rainbow of onions,  
   because as soon as they ripen I’d toss them  
in an insalata and antipasto  
   to go with a tray of exotic cheeses 
      that smell as tantalizing as God’s feet—
   except Casu Marzu from Sardinia  
because sadly we’re not allowed to import  
   sheep’s milk fermented with insect larvae—
but what do I know about the law 
other than voir dire means “to speak the truth” 
and it’s essential for potential jurors  
   to answer every question truthfully 
      to see if they can serve impartially, 
   so I might as well confess to you now 
that I can see us drinking whiskey 
   and getting frisky off a mint julep 
the same way Prima did in that one song,  
   then we can decant the super-duper 
Tuscan to let it breathe and catch our breath  
   before pairing it with steak pizzaiola,  
      cutlet parmesan, and chicken cacciatore—
   then we’d share a dish of sunshine and ravioli   
before eating a spread of baked ziti, macaroni,  
   chop suey, chow mein, and minestrone, 
      with braised fillets of baccalà on polenta—  
   but I could never stand by the stovetop  
stirring cornmeal for an hour nonstop, 
   especially when I could watch your lips 
      pucker up to the spoon I now envy, 
   brimming with steaming pasta fazool— 
I admit I could be a fool for you 
   but not enough to go to carpentry school    
      to learn how to build a bigger table  
   that could display platters of spumoni  
and cannoli, or the banana split  
   Prima dedicates an entire tune to, 
      you know the one with whipped cream piled high  
   as the Eiffel Tower topped with cherries,  
nuts, a pepperoni pizza for fun,  
   drowned in an infinity pool of hot fudge—
      and with me, you’d never be left hungry, 
   so by the time we devour our feast  
and the insatiable jazz band can’t feed off  
   the sizzling crowd for one more encore to end the night, 
      our empty plates could become a lifetime of full moons. 

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Caroline Laganas is earning a PhD in Creative Writing at Florida State University. She was an award winner in the Atlanta Review International Poetry Competition, a finalist for the Mississippi Review Prize, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her poems appear in Poetry, Best New Poets, The Rumpus, New Orleans Review, and others.