The Poetry Project


Angela Simione

I’m fucking lonely, take a look around. Goddamn computer on my lap, dead cat, verlassen husband.  But yeah… keep turning.  Last I heard, the world kept coming. A pandemic teaches me patience. Against my will, sure, but it’s still a virtue. My debt makes it too expensive to choose frivolity. I skip down to the bank like a kid and pay my too high rent like a grown-up.  I look at my neighbors and wonder if it’s true what I see all over Instagram: The police are the public and the public are the police. My father doesn’t know anything about my life other than what I post and he hasn’t for 12 years. And it has never been so easy, under penalty of law, to threaten him with the truth of my physicality and the facts of my childhood, never once thinking he was paying any attention but, now, I’ve been taking my loneliness as a clue.

Work from Consider the Omnivore: Consumption, Anxiety, Mess as Imagination with Jayson P. Smith