Poetry by Angela Costi

INCIDENT IN AISLE 5 I was almost as tall as the shopping trolley,  I could see up and through its bars to catch the slap of Mama’s hate  across Baba’s cheek. What’s he done this time? A question on loop. Her purse was agape,  not one coin.  The trolley was a foolish promise of fruit cups, Weetbix, raisin toast…  His cheeks were a permanent red, genetic markers of so…so…  sorry, shoulders tilted to grovel, suspicion arose  if something came good.  ...

...

To read the rest of this article Login

or purchase a Digital Subscription