Your upbringing has you convinced
that when angels come at last to visit you,
they will be immense and will dominate
all your senses and being. It’s hype —
house pet scaled nuisances,
at their worst.
I woke to one perched
on the bedside table
and at first, I thought it was one of the cats.
Once I knew better, recognized it by its gray wings and
solemn demeanor, I said: how come, angel,
your resemble a cheap gargoyle from a garden shop? How come
you aren’t robed in storm, an elemental force?
I’m only mildly put out to see you here.
You picked the wrong bed to sit by. Get out.
Go scare a sick kid or comfort an old man, take
your burst of petulance at my lack of fear
and put it where it matters. Take
your European constraint, your
European deity feather-bound by committee,
and go. Go tell those that want me
to send tornado hearted eyeless giants, send
thunderbird riders, send the deep green-red sky itself
to hover over me if they must; something
I can bow my head before and rise into
with honor and agreement. Angel,
archangel, seraph: go. You’re not
worthy. I smell that book on you.
I read it once. I don’t care to read it again
and I’m not leaving till the earth itself
deems me ready to go and holds
all the continents and oceans up,
like a robe, to wrap me in as I go.