Angels sit for hours burnishing
the hard ore of death
an alchemy that illuminates
for some a golden passage
for others only a divine comedy,
with no last act, only the closing of
a heavy red curtain.
The little boy called to his
mother every night,
“Why do some people
Say amen and some say ahmen?”
He only asked when the last
story was read and she
was half-way down the hall.
She never had an answer
other than “they just do.”
Even so he was satisfied
and could sleep in the blanket of night.
Angels dance on the head
of a pin. We would hear them
if we could bear it.
But we turn from their dark mercy,
the healing waters they offer, we refuse
to pour, it spills from earthen vessels
and is swallowed by the sun.
The little girl ran after her brother
I love you, I love you she called
As he ran down the front steps
I love you, I love you she said when her father
left for work in the morning. Her small
face crumpled when they didn’t hear.
Words were amulets she sent in their pockets.
Without them no one was safe.
Such a big burden for such a tiny girl.
Better give it to the angels, her mother said.
They will drink our fear if we let them.
Is it sour? the girl asked.
It tastes of iron and salt. Her mother replied
And is bitter beyond any words I possess.
Best give it to the angels.
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