by Giorgianna Orsini

Hidden away in the music

you found my hand. I might have been

the prettiest there in a dress I‘d sewed.

I felt sure of you， further complimented

by the zucca and rice you‘d cooked for supper.

So many times I found myself counting on you

to catch the forgotten milk on the stove，

to balance the books my arithmetic failed.

At intermission you reached the lobby

ahead of me， where you spotted¹

a young girl you hardly knew.

Pretty enough to caress² her cheek

with your hand. "It‘s just my way，"

you said， when I wondered out loud，

with a self ripped out， hideous³， inert⁴，

even knowing a week ago

I touched the cheek of another

with the same careless affection.