after Edith Södergran

A sliver of silver,
you paint my skull on the walls
as I walk along lonely streets.
Nothing shifts in the darkness
littered by broken tales falling
out of windows ajar, clinking
on cobblestones. I wander,
wrapped in a squall, fall
on the way – a stranded
busker in a patchwork
dress, a jester psalming softly
through night’s whispers.
Tender, you glide slowly across
the sky, fast across my dream,
set long before, awake,
I arrive home.

When I have a harder time dealing with the isolation, the uncertainty every day brings, I close my eyes and see blue ice.

Glacier Grey

hundreds of pointed glaciers close together with sky and mountain in the background

In Patagonia: Grey Glacier, Torres del Paine National Park, Chile
March 2, 2020

Simona Carini was born and grew up in Italy, where she graduated from the Catholic University of the Sacred Heart (Milan). She moved to California as an adult and graduated from Mills College (Oakland, CA). Her poetry and memoir have appeared in a number of venues, in print and online, including Intima – A Journal of Narrative Medicine, Italian Americana, the American Journal of Nursing, and the California Writers Club Literary Review. Her food writing appears regularly in the North Coast Journal. Carini lives in Northern California and works as a data scientist at an academic research institution. https://simonacarini.com

See more of her work in 4.2 and 5.1 and 5.3 and 7.1 and 9.1

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