Libellula

Each day I lose a word—

a small stone from the riverbed

of my mother tongue.

On the phone, I speak with my sister

in Italian, a way of holding fast

to my roots. I tell her the story

of the dragonfly that followed me

while I painted the house.

The translation slips.

I say, la mosca dragone

and she laughs.

She says, Libellula,

and gathers herself.

I don’t remember

ever hearing the word,

though I once walked the meadows

behind Nonna’s house,

where grasses circled the pond

and dragonflies stitched the air

with light.

What else have I forgotten?

The name of papaveri,

the smell of wild camomilla,

Nonna’s call when dinner was ready?

Libellula.

She says it again.