Brigits Flame Week 1
Angels
I’m pretty sure the whore
that hangs around on the corner of 8th and Monroe-
the one with purple hair who draws thick
crayon-like Egyptian lines around her eyes,
is an angel.
I can’t explain exactly why I feel this way.
It could be her aristocratic ankles,
her cherry drop mouth,
the cross stud she wears in her nose,
or the INRI tattoo across her lower back.
But mostly, I suppose, it’s that I feel
there is something distinctly liquid about her.
As though she has been poured into her stilettos,
dripping all over my carpet when she’s over.
And for some reason,
that’s how I imagine angels.
Beings of liquid sunlight,
sprinkled from god’s watering can;
collecting in birdbaths
and the corners of a certain young lady's eyes.