Constellation Cannoli

When I say I want to die
before my husband dies,

I am saying marshmallow yams,
I am saying chicken pepperoni.

My carpaccio caboodle cannoli man,
I am approaching the last cucina, please—

not alone in the cocina.
Beyond the loggia, I watch

rain not fall, I watch fall not rain, often—
I am the expectation of gravitas,

a tub gelato, a deep spoon. Sometimes
I calligraphy the refrigerator. Curlicue

the antipasti I will miss the most, but hope
to keep my artista through my espíritu,

my espíritu through my artista, always—
though his bruschetta makes me cry.

I hue alabaster azure, smoky tangerine—
Aquarius Mister, Capricorn Missus.

We bellissimo gorgonzola. And on warm days
the gorgonzola bellissimos us—passion

fruit spumante, antipasti di pesce, alfresco
Sunday picnics. We languid under the willow, a ritual

and feed each other. Yet without my man, how
will I follow the right capellini home?

Who will stand alto, al dente?—point me
toward my constellation cannoli?