I know it’s not meant to be, but if your engine
light is still on at exit 63 the gas station has fishing
wire and those gorgeous little lures that look like frozen comets.
We could pick up bait for the weekend
when we go to the woods with the stream
where they found the last angel floating home.
I’m sorry to suddenly turn you into an Us. I’m afraid
I’m in love with the dirt under your nails
from the vegetable garden where we buried the cat.
Of course, this isn’t what I wanted, either. You
could do better too—but there’s something ageless
in the way you tend to fold the news.
What tired gods we make. What restlessness
does anger own beyond that which we give it?
Hannah Yoest is an art director based in Washington D.C. Her poetry has been featured in several literary magazines including Columbia Journal online, Atlanta Review, Barely South, Aperion Review, and others. She is a graduate of the University of Virginia where she studied fine art. She has completed a number of poetry workshops including summers at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, Columbia University’s Arts in the Summer, Virginia Quarterly Review’s Writer’s Conference, and the Kenyon Review’s Writer’s Conference.