. . . the sheets hold a diagonal crease: the memory of the line, an imprint as obvious and useless as the adult our childhood selves once planned to be.
Scodellaro’s characters have autonomy, know their comforts and desires, and find space and safety in the corners of forgotten places. They grieve on countertops, chewing ice and waiting for the return of a lover who has left for another.
My love, I signed / what papers they put before me. / The next morning a breeze / swept in across the bar. I watched it lean / the white sails toward starboard / and lift your heavy ashes / into the air.