Growing Season

Growing Season



On the bike path, a bunny’s body and blood

where the head should be. Something


has torn off its foot, something has eaten

its heart, its entrails frozen in snow.


The plow growls past me. This morning

I left eggs behind the couch to incubate. I spent


last night walking until all the blood left my feet,

and my thighs throbbed. The snow


refuses to melt. I refuse to wear

a sweater set or heels. Instead of TV news,


I watch the sky. When it darkens,

my ribs swell, and I know it is not time


to plant. I wait for the beginning

or the end—depending on the day. Soon,


there will be enough water for all of us

to need to build a boat: the sun falls


into the street, blinding the drivers heading

north, warming the snow from inside.


About the Author:

(Excerpt is taken from;

Angela’s first collection of poems, Louder Birds (Pleiades, 2020), was chosen by Traci Brimhall for the Lena-Miles Wever Todd Prize. My poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Kenyon Review Online, New Ohio Review,  Memorious, Rattle, Crab Orchard Review, and Best New Poets, among other journals and anthologies. I’ve been awarded grants from The Sustainable Arts Foundation and Key West Literary Seminar, as well as a fellowship from Writers’ Room of Boston.


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