Poetry That Invites Gratefulness in the Midst of Darkness and Blood: A Review of LOUDER BIRDS by Angela Voras-Hills
From the first moment I stepped into Angela Voras-Hills’ collection, Louder Birds, I knew I was in the presence of something vital.
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Robby Johnson sits at the bar drumming his fingers on a bottle of Bud. He’s been sitting in that same spot, two stools from the door, for the past two weeks. Since his dad and brother died. The only other person at the bar this early is Jimmy.
The sun slants his hapless rays / through spiderwebbed glass, / and amid the hills of newspaper
I climbed another mountain and spat on a boulder / because climbing a mountain means nothing. To fish / from the middle of the stream, fresh catch flailing / breathlessly on the shore, gasping frivolous moonlight, / their widened eyes confused: that is my percussion
of temptation, the drum I’d rather follow through the rain
When I arose the petals of the pink / were strewn on the table, / debris of glossy tongues.
The third line on my brow— / arrived last night.
She prefers the psych ward. Her blue / nurse-gloves check restraints, flit like the furtive
Seeking out sugar but settling for deer shit / my mother leans against the side / an old Babylonian cigarette machine