Beached angel, wing-split wrung round
balconies, spinning Flamenco pink as thighs, a dress or
vision—my sister’s? Stretched space between
her shoulder blades, stubble-stumps, a scrapped message:
we’re in the mood for faith. Alms pressed to arms, to
what revelations? The dangerous need to go home.
Now her wings fold, she has no seeds incanting
constant motion. This luminous filled space betwixt strangers'
hips, elbows. Then to kneel, a keel evened to stay with
vehicles to assume futures post-2012 Mayan calendars.
Plead with a green strip, sign from a jungle. Epochs’
derailed demise, thwarted, accosted we draw straws
and signals, speak in tongues, say be here! keep quiet!
go forth! Flight patterns’ tired pride. Trials she
can’t counter to count upon this book, the good red
throat raised in glass gasps, limping, the tattered
wing’s emargination, to drag us forth as a dead limb
against dust. She is just the sort of hissing angel
that won't go away for good. It's what we wanted, weathervanes
in the waning light. Lifted up, whimpering among the pews.
Listening ear close to shoulder, transept’s marble tiles crossing
themselves. A foreboding whispered to us all along...
why didn’t you think of it before her fall?
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