Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Three

Martin Ott


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.