Are you a fallen angel, here on earth,
burning bright at death’s golden door,
cool to the touch in your unknown
divinity? I have known more in anguish,
earth-bound, burning a fevered cheek
full of want and wanting, too young,
galloping on a sorrel’s hooves leaving
hearts, broken—a father, a daughter grasping
infertile hours, lost and dis-connected, dis-
jointed. The sun slips beyond a pale-lit ocean
knitting our names with spider’s webbing, singing
litanies of those who have died, haunted.
Melancholy permeates their houses.
Nothing will pierce the final silence
obliterated with disease, murder, even old age
palpating them into this next life. How
quick was this life, how many seconds
railed on without thoughts of tomorrow?
Some of us have planned for un-being—our
topflight carapaces spent, un-fathoming,
un-doing a voice, a gaze, a taste of sugar,
valiant in our loss of cherished sentiment.
What do you call un-becoming? I name it
xenogamy of the spirit, cross-pollinated with a
yearning for a just, tenderhearted god
zealously lifting a soft place to land.