The more I writhe to detangle my body
            from the net the poachers set at the edge
                      of the forest, the deeper the leaves
           of your vest blend in with the bark
of the tree I dangle from.
           Below, a mirror reflects the sun
which makes me want to live
           through your scent like summer.
                      I need to make like a puddle
           and collect myself: Once,
I was a child. My neighbor had a pool
           in her backyard. Her dad collected matchbooks
with naked women on the inside.
           Sometimes I would steal them.
                      This has so little to do with you, except
sometimes, I can’t help myself.
           And this is why I need you
                      to carry a knife, and why I want you
to let me fall
and break all of my earthly bones.

Angela Voras-Hills earned her MFA at UMass-Boston and was a fellow at the Writers’ Room of Boston. Her work has appeared in Kenyon Review Online, Best New Poets 2013, Hayden's Ferry Review, and Linebreak, among others. She recently received the Spring Promise Award from the Sustainable Arts Foundation and currently lives in Madison, WI.