Post Road Magazine #26

In Which I Hoard the Air Escaping

Angela Voras-Hills

An abundance of crows—cats pick their meat,
scatter beaks and legs between bushes,

and bring the black wings back to the field.

We hold hands through wheat, scapulae snapping
beneath us, and lay our blanket at the shorn edge

to watch the murder convene in branches.

Grasshoppers, hayflies, golden
breeze—you speak of love as a flame

tickling the skin of our house. So I gather

your breath like photographs and salt,
blankets and hoses, hoping

the neighbors' dogs will sniff us out

before it's too late. The sun sinks, and dark,
the crows disappear, too. I'd begun to mistake them

for promises. It's impossible to know, you say,

as the cat climbs on my lap to watch
the field of crows picking at bones between us.

Wait in the Bathtub and It Will Carry You

Angela Voras-Hills

In the basement, the puddle of ants
   needed to be dealt with. We lent them
a heavy hand, built them a bridge,
   then warmed our mugs of water
in the attic to avoid the flood. Too many
   days went by without our caring
for the tulips. When we remembered
   to expose them to light, it was fall
and the chestnuts had already popped
   free from their pods. We were
never the type to plant on time,
   relied on chipmunks to eat
the tomatoes and excrete their seeds
   in convenient patterns within
a square of chicken wire. Our rose bushes
   rose from the side of our house,
and grew toward anything they could
   believe in. We, on the other hand,
laid in the grass like two oceans
   beneath a full moon, one of us
always waxing or waning and waiting
   for someone else to build a pier
onto which we might tie our small ship.

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