If I could feed you Italy in one day,
served within a cup for you to savor,
I'd begin in sunny Sorrento
south of Naples,
the morning air perfumed by lemon trees
whose fruit is distilled into the liqueur
that the locals pride themselves in making;
you hold a small espresso cup between index finger and thumb
and wrinkle your nose at the bitter flavor
of a first tentative sip
between nibbles of cheese and bread and fruit
in a tiny cafe that overlooks the Mediterranean
and the hazy outline of the island of Capri in the distance.

If I could feed you Italy in one day,
pressed between the slices of a fresh panini,
I'd take you to the Tuscan hills
far from the beaten paths of tourists
north of Siena,
the afternoon as fresh as laundry
drying on the lattice of clothesline
of the apartment across the piazza;
women's voices dart like birds overhead,
flying in and out of open windows
as we share bites of our sandwich,
thick with tomato, cheese, and basil—
simple ingredients that yield a complexity
of tastes washed down with swallows of cold beer
under an ice blue sky.

If I could feed you Italy in one day,
prepared al forno like a primo piatto of lasagna or gnocchi,
I'd take you to an obscure osteria just outside the Duomo
in central Florence,
where the waiters sing you to your table
with operatic theatricality
and the vino della casa is the rich ruby colors
of the evening as it settles on the city,
soft as a silk scarf slipping through your fingers;
we feel the heat of the kitchen
press against the cool of coming night,
our noses florid with the spices of our meals 
as we feed each other forkfuls from our plates;
the streets are alive with the commotion of traffic
and the banter of voices bouncing like balls
down the cobblestones of the Via.

If I could feed you Italy in one day,
poured like dark grappa in a delicate tulip glass,
I'd end at a taverna in a remote campo
in the heart of Venice,
where the tables are draped in checkered linen
under quiet awnings far from
the chaos of the Grande Canal;
the sweetness of the day lingers
in the echolalia of lapping water
and the sounds of gondoliers at work;
we indulge ourselves in the ablutions
of vin santo, biscotti dipped in sweet wine,
in limoncello or amaro sipped
from chilled glasses,
in espresso black
as the Venetian sky at night.

If I could feed you Italy in one day,
would we ever feel the need to eat again?