Angels, a scattering of lit particles landing, slanted, on this moving stream

Of snow melt, and ice flow kicked up by barrel chested ducks turning upside down

Tails up, feet wagging, bright orange in the liquid black.

 

An angel there, resting in the dimples of a plain woman.

Not in the eyes, no—

On her simple face, which cradles

The divine in a rosy, freckled indentation upon it’s cheek.

 

And here, angels fly in block print, and shuffle among pages

Held between the fingers of a reading boy

Who learns about a wolf

And why it cried.

 

Under the rind of a tangerine, I see one;

It’s liquid oils spraying briefly in the air

Microcosmic scented fireworks.

And another in the beet that lays beside it on the cutting board

Leaking vegetable blood.

This humble root ablaze with

Earthy flavors and ruby droplets

Which run into the grooves of fingerprints and stay there,

A natural tattoo.

 

I see angels everywhere:

Lodged in the whorl of hair upon  my dog’s elbow

Where all his spots, black and white, meet and spin

In a finite tornado.

In the tick of every clock and the echoes

Of the minds who thought of time

And gravity, of lightening bolts calibrated into globes of glass

And water which emerges from my sink

Nowhere near the nearest stream.

 

They are right here,

Resting their heads in the graphite of a sharpened pencil

Which will be used to sketch a dream,

And tip toeing along the edges of my kitchen knives—

Giddy with the possibility of falling,

Leaning down and gazing at their reflections

In the stainless steel.

 

I see angels all around—throngs and flocks

Of feathered wings and sparkling trails where they have been.

They roam in spirited, unruly gangs,

Leaving evidence of their chaotic love

In every known and unknown corner of the world.

 

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Editor: Rachel Nussbaum

Photo: elephant archives