Angela Simione
I’ll go through all my papers today
Sort through the poems and paintings and make a home
there: between the ink and the page. Delicate
strange,
a forgiveness I can accept, somewhere graphite grey.
Smelling like melted wax and lit cigarettes,
hair shoved back in barrettes,
avoiding the phone and door knocks, slinking
shyly among strangers, admirers, and mothers.
I have a hope.
mending myself with a crochet hook, tangling
up a garden of black and white flowers,
avoiding chores, pajama noon
I am a kid again.
new white,
burritoed in blankets, eyebrows kissed and
notebook in hand.
Mungo 