The syncopated rhythm of the weathered air conditioner
paints a white-noise lullaby across the canvas
of this hot and humid summer night,
hanging heavy in the darkness of this room.
Despite the sound of air rattling from the sill,
sweat-soaked sheets are tossed aside,
and we leave a space betwixt our bodies,
like firebrands this night,
for fear our flesh,
will sear itself together,
fusing us as one,
if we only dare to touch.
Angela Hinkle is an unemployed English teacher who resides in suburban New Hampshire with her two very odd children and her even odder husband (who may be counted as a child much of the time). In a house full of board games, books, boxes of Slim Jims in bulk, books, the hoarding disaster created by a severely ADHD child, and more books, Angela somehow manages to find herself space in order to sit down at her laptop (with coffee) and write poetry. When she can’t actually find space, the library is always a great second-choice writing spot. She admits that she doesn’t write because she likes to. In fact, she finds the process frustrating and painstaking. Regardless, the need to write drives her. She finds inspiration everywhere, in the cracks of sidewalks to the chaos of the classroom (whether or not being distracted by such inspiration is convenient at the time—which it often is most assuredly not). Angela’s life has been drastically altered by the invention of the notepad available on mobile devices, which allows her to catalog her thoughts anytime, anyplace (again, without regards to convenience). Never fear, she does not write while driving! Luckily, there is always a Dunkin’ Donuts nearby.