for Jill Young

Angels file their nails, floss their teeth,
play charades and trivial pursuit,
always taking pains to keep
their fingers busy
knowing full well to be idle—
even for angels—begs trouble.
Angels in raiment
of virginal lingerie
repose on chaise lounges
while watching the world
like mid-season TV—
re-runs of arguments, car chases,
armies amassing at borders.
Angels are helpless to act
until someone asks.
Occasionally one is requested
to stop a train in its tracks,
pull a child from a river,
or lie down with a hiker
lost days in the snow—
the angel equivalent
of a triple A call.
It’s the rare angel who’s asked
to stop a war.
Nevertheless, the angel returns
insufferable with accomplishment, 
and proclaims over bingo,
“You should have been there, seen
the way I put my shoulder to the train.”
Angels understand
the nick of time.
Though cautioned against it
a thousand thousand times—
angels are filled to bursting
of their diaphanous beings
with pride.
Overweening, overarching
everlasting pride.
                        

So intense, the morning sun
through stained glass
panels of my bedroom doors,
the lenses in my glasses
resting on the nightstand
have darkened in response.
(I won’t mention the play
of pink and purple light
on the walls!)  My first
thought as I awaken is lucid:
my life is perfect.  I bless
this fragile moment then arise
to the day that might
prove otherwise.
                        

You come at night to say you’re leaving,
have dreamed of freedom for so long.
and more, you love another—old familiar song.
I call for Mother in my grieving,
but, in her own dream, she’s not speaking.
The children, uninvolved, won’t say you’re wrong.
Our friends are not surprised, say don’t prolong
the misery, the pain, by not accepting
that you’re gone.  Because I refuse to hear
the first time you say you really have to go,
you speak again, louder than before, and wear
a new love on your arm, gesture meant to show
you have no love for me—I must forbear.
The dead are even colder than we know.