7/2

I used to write about angels
lounging in church pews and strolling
through the back alleys of New York
like they owned the place,
the way their hands would slide
like light through a crying child's
or their boneless jaws would tighten
when someone shook their fist at the sky.
Anywhere I could catch a glimpse
in a splintered wine glass
or the shards of a mirror on the carpet
or in the reflection of similarly broken things,
I scribbled down the place and time
for further investigation.

Somehow, though,
I never quite dragged my feet back to those
little windows, the ghostly hints, maybe afraid
that a little too much light might blind my weary eyes,
tiny and all too mortal. My hesitant steps into
an ancient cathedral one daring night should have
warned me; I was just begging for confrontation,
but when I gazed too long into the pipes
of some great organ, a shuddering candle revealed
one of those wisps at my side,
gasping choked sobs into curled palms
as if something had seized his throat
and his shoulders heaved
like they strained under terrible weight.
No prayer beneath my breath
or whispered Scripture
could hush him up and from that day on
I have been hard-pressed to write about angels.