Fiori di zucca fritti undulates
in the mouth, caressing the tongue so sweet.
Unlike fried zucchini flowers—clunky
pebbles clash tinny against teeth. Meting
discordance until I watch my Nonna
select a slender male flower, blazing
gold into orange gilded velvet vibrance
Once he stood, glowing exposed to the sun
standing strong with stamen at the ready
until her scissors advanced, sliced toward
the garden of delicacies in search
of stalk and stem—chiffon like petals dipped
first in whipped egg mixture then into flour
thrown into hot oil, for us to devour.
Michele True is a post-graduate creative writer, a dog mom that goes overboard for her Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, and Coke Zero addict. She lives in the mountains of Tuscany, where she revels in a silence that's mostly broken by the sounds of local church bells. When she isn't writing poetry, she is translating Italian feminist poetry into English, polishing a finished screenplay, and working on her first novel.