Angel
Gabriel
Sometimes the Angel
Gabriel appears in a burst
of feathers at my
door. Carrying a bent lily
he stops for
pomegranate tea
after a sad day on the job.
I bring out my whitest
china
but sit a few feet
back because his glow
is
like the equator at sunset
and really does a number on
the eyes.
Sometimes the hem of his
robe is singed
so
he explains how gentleness is
a
pseudo-insurrectionary fight. That
love’s become
the cause of
vigilantes
He, Michael, Rafael –
guerilla rank and file.
Sometimes Gabriel talks
about a baby
girl he couldn’t
save. How the blade
spun like
propellers of a warplane.
How he can’t sleep
because he sees her
scattered like jagged
pink seashells
when he
shuts his eyes.
Sometimes he describes
heartbeats:
fragilely
mighty, or mightily fragile
depending on their owners.
Strung
together, one opal, then another.
Moving like the tops of trees
in a windstorm.
But most of the time
Gabriel can’t say
anything at all. He
cries archangel-sized tears
and what
looks like glitter
shakes lose from his hair.
So we sit. Let the tea-steam wrap
around his halo.
Then he picks up that
broken lily
and wanders, like a heavy
mist, down my street.
