The Black Angel: A Banishing

I watch you walk by in your pink rhinestone sunglasses, white earbuds, sky-blue coat.
You never get too close. You never leave me flowers. The others do. But roses rot,
it’s true. I can smell that you, too, once hungered to hold the grief pose forever:
arms outstretched, head down, wings flaring, darkness enduring, forgetting
you were ever bronze. I can tell by the way you rush by: you once tried
to make a monument, but it melted. You little earthworm, helium
balloon. Demeter’s daughter stuffing her ears with new songs
while weaving among the crypts and tulips. It’s up to me
to keep your torch blazing, steadfast. I refuse to look
up, to lower my arms, to flap my wings. I have no
death date. Like mothers who eagerly await
the nap of anesthesia, this long stillness
after a life of washing and mending,
lifting and bending, makes me
feel as free as any hollow,
winged thing.

Get a move on, maiden.
You are no longer young.
Follow the path unfurled
by my wing, my arm.
Don’t be alarmed
by my missing fingers.
Those goons with their
chisels in the moonlight
belong here with me.
We don’t want your kind.
Take the last bright route.
Tarantella your way
to the gate. Swing your
arms, spin your skirts,
balloon your silk threads
till you catch a current to
a valley blue and strange.
Start all over again.

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channeling The Black Angel and others in response to prompt #3