❛ 𝘄e make our own rules here. we with our
river mud wings and teeth of mica, with
our voices like the sound of deer running.
𝘄e say no romance, because we are not
made of blood & fumbling like human
men, but when god is in the battlefield
𝗱isguised as medical thread & we're
perched on a far-off rooftop together, just us
two, listening to the constellations hymn
𝗶n binary code while the kids we guard
sleep heavy through the night, well. can you
blame us for a slip here and there?
𝗺en think angels were constructed before
mortals, & that's true. if i search back i can
still remember how this universe
𝘀huddered when it took its first breath,
all the helium atoms like chicory unfurling
their tiny bodies. but men also think of us
𝗮ngels as cold: bolts of blue silk or gathering
of iron nails. i'll tell you three secrets.
when god brushed the dark onto goldfinch
𝘄ings, i wept for beauty. when another
guardian angel kissed my blackberry thorn
mouth, i grinned for the tenderness in him.
𝘄hen we hover just outside the saltwater
& moonlight gates to heaven, we are not
closed off, only admiring for a moment
𝗯efore returning to watch the wine-dark
laughter of sleepless cities, the un-
restrained thrumming of light pollution,
all these eons of glimmering clay. ❜
― angels staring at the outside of heavens gates
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p. && m.