Poetry By Lucia Angileri

Chaim Dönnewal CC




Hot June

Lately I am running late 
to my own arrival. Can’t seem
to cry or come. You can see in 
my eyes that I am somewhere 
else. 2011 or 2017 or that wet
hot June

when I called everyone 
baby. Drank my weight 
in rum. When all I wanted 
was more. Sure, 
I was an unreliable 
narrator. Forgive me. 
I was trying to find 
what was promised to us 
in being. 

About what holds us. People,
terraces, grief. Vintage suede. 
The croon of a stranger. 
An old friend. Someone 
you once knew or 
slept with. Someone you will 
sleep with. About how 
someone can only be 
new once and then 
never again. How 
you could go back
to that June and 
nothing would be there. 

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Love Poem on Calle 66

On the stoop of a Mayan pub 
with Marlboro Gold’s

and a knack for sadness,
tallying every time you shared 

a cigarette or a life. How surreal! 
How you’ve walked 

out of parties and jobs,
apartments & dives,

on people you loved 
or didn’t.

Feel that desire surfacing now,
that desire to walk

down the avenue 
screaming 

I LOVE YOU 
CAN’T YOU HEAR ME I LOVE YOU

But what good would it do? 
There are more urgent things 

to attend to. Like your mouth
parting to say my name 

or your tragic hands reaching
under a spill of white sheets.




Lucia Angileri is a Canadian poet of Mexican descent based in Windsor, Ontario. Her work appears in several literary magazines across the U.S.
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