After high school, I study abroad: Switzerland
where I dress neatly, do my homework, keep to myself.
When roommates invite me to dinner, I eat bolognese 

on the patio, breeze curling behind each ear 
like an Italian comma. I drink grappa and puke neatly 
into Elyssa’s toilet. I am good—I pay attention 

when Rania teaches me to smoke, mimic her hand, 
learn to hold that stick of fire like I was born to it, 
as if my parents gave me cigarettes instead of rattles. 

I get an A on my Italian quiz, apply myself to the culture—
wear short skirts and high heels, dance in basement clubs 
to the Gipsy Kings. I am good—never late to class 

or for dates with Dario, whose Mediterranean physique 
makes me woozy. Grazie, I say when he pays our bill. 
Walking home through the piazza, we pass the church 

and chocolate shop, a cable car hanging from its thread 
like a spider tired of weaving. Dario’s shirt comes undone. 
Grazie, I say, leaning close to examine his terrain.