Dec 4, 2012


Written by Angela Voras-Hills

Read by David Welch

After the seasonal fires filled our lungs,
we washed the linens. The neighbor’s cat lingered
on our windowsill, looking in. We couldn’t

get rid of him, no matter the poison. By that time,
we’d known for months. The grass
had been singed by the soil, the worms

lay shriveled in the dirt. We waited
all night near the window for crickets, didn’t hear
the possum digging its way in

through the foundation of our house.
It curled into a ball behind the dryer to die.
Days later, the sidewalk was glistening black,

covered with the crickets’ silent bodies.
You carried me to the car and began
driving. When the urge came

to push, I hesitated, but couldn’t resist
the burning. The moon sat quietly above
the ribs of the earth. Somewhere, tides were rising.