This is the poem.
When I was a little girl,
I thought everyone was Italian,
and that was good. We visted
our aunts and uncles,
and they visted us.
The Italian language smooth
and sweet in my mouth.
In kindergarten, English words fell on me,
thick and sharp as hail. I grew silent,
the Italian word balanced on the edge
of my tongue and the English word, lost
during the first moment
of every question.
