Angela Voras-Hills – Home (iv)

photo credit: roadside pictures


Angela Voras-Hills
Home (iv)

On the other side of the field, the old house
was still asleep. We both remembered
seeing it on the news as kids, recognized it
the day we moved in. When the father disappeared,
nobody was around to answer questions.
For a year, we watched what grew
between the houses. Among all the mothers
in the field, only the coyote had eaten her young.
When the chamomile finally bloomed, we wore
tall boots and trampled her rotten den.
Through the shattered kitchen window we saw
blood, black beneath the table where
no light could touch it. We crawled in
to be closer. Touching the blood made us
invisible to the birds, and the sun
could not reach us. Pots and pans were still
on the stove, the toaster beside a sink
full of black dishes. We held hands
and curled into the corner of a dark room.
We waited for some small light to find us.