I Thought Elvis Was Italian

Domenico Capilongo

pic­tures of my father slick-haired & side­burned
my uncles had all his albums
older cousins played the hawaii con­cert
when­ever I was over
thought he had to change his name
like dean mar­tin did

the leather
the rings & gold chains
the way he moved his hips
his lips
the leather
the sicil­ian black of his hair
the way he bor­rowed the tune of “o sole mio”
for his song “it’s now or never”
his best friend named espos­ito
the leather
his fix­a­tion with cars
the way he looked at women
the way he put on weight
how close he was to his mother
the leather
the black vel­vet posters in everyone’s base­ment
movies dubbed in ital­ian
he was played at wed­dings after taran­tel­las
the leather the rings
gold chains

if he’s still alive he’s in his 70s
eye­ing his blood pres­sure
sit­ting in the court­yard of his villa
in some tiny south­ern ital­ian vil­lage
deserted by emi­gra­tion
a new graceland

talk­ing side­ways since the stroke
he some­times plays the man­dolin
sings in an ancient dialect
known only to farm­ers
he smiles at chick­ens
who peck at his feet
cats dance in the shade
his eyes mov­ing slowly
under a mediter­ranean sun