Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume One Issue Three
Mercy
Clip the wings of angels. Blacken
their feathers with a day’s hard toil.
Nail their halos to the ground so they
may view the world upside down.
Clip the wings of angels out of greeting
cards and calendars. Teach them to walk,
then to crawl. Pull out their plumes and
pack them into pillows soft as clouds.
Clip the wings of angels and stake them
to a mop. Scrub the aging porcelain
from bowl to rim and let them snake
between your legs to clear the drain.
Clip the wings of angels. Use their tongues
to bind the sun. Grind their pearly teeth
into aphrodisiacs and drain their veins
into an elixir that churns blood to wine.
Clip the wings of angels and mount them
on soldiers’ tombs. You wait for them
to launch their vengeance, but there’s
only so much that angels can do.
Clip the wings of angels, then embrace
the descent of clouds to sea, the return
of dappled light, the subtle beat of monarch’s
wings and a wind that breathes you ease.