“Dear Abby,” by Angela Voras-Hills

30 January 2012 on Poetry   Tags:

I won't tell anyone you prefer nachos to sex—
there's limited ammo for breeze-shooting,
but I won't use yours. I try
to avoid guns, though my father keeps
an oak cabinet full of rifles. He's never
boarded a plane, but once told security
my mom had a bomb in her purse.
(This was before psychics felt tremors
in their palms.) Last night, I spent
twenty minutes listening to hold music
on speaker phone, eating oranges
over the kitchen sink. My tea leaves
unfurled, said “stay,” so I curled
fetal into bed, an African goat-
bludgeoning club on my nightstand,
and dreamt of a baby who could swim
to shore in a rip tide. I woke up,
taped price tags to all my furniture,
and hauled it onto the lawn.
It began raining before anyone could take it away.

No Comments Yet

Leave a Comment
error: Content is protected !!