Before I had language, I laughed: How many men does it take to build a house? How many women are left to make the beds?
I played on a crooked bridge, walked the planks until the suspension gave, and rusted bolts caught my skin. I ran home, bleeding.
Before I owned cliché, I pushed my baby in a stroller and tucked her into her crib. I was five and licking the beaters of someone else’s
cake batter. I picked each cherry from the pie and left its shell untouched. This is how I learned to want everyone
to want to understand me. By the time I was old enough to dissect meaning from the body, the windows
had been sealed shut. I began separating yolks from their whites, seeds from their hulls, and now
I can finally taste leaves loosening from their branches. I roll in the dirt that will catch them. [End Page 8]
Angela Voras-Hills holds an MFA at UMass–Boston and has received awards from The Sustainable Arts Foundation, Key West Literary Seminar, and Writers’ Room of Boston. Other work has appeared in Kenyon Review Online, Memorious, and Best New Poets, among others. She is Literary Arts Program Co-director for Arts + Literature Laboratory in Madison, WI.