This cigarette fallen on the gas station tarmac in its long white robe. This half-eaten fruit in the trash bin turning to rot. These napkins swept in an updraft like hands lifted to prayer. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You do not fear the pine tree covered in snow, despite its ghostly dress. The forest is chainsawed at the ankles. Have mercy. Angels are moved by the winds, just as you are. Just as the scarf blows over your eyes the moment your child stumbles. You can sometimes protect her, sometimes not. The rats in the sewer receive their blessings quickly, before the paper wings disintegrate in the current. You could, perhaps, be the angel. Except when winter comes, you are the one driving the truck home with the angel strapped to the roof. A jingle on the radio. You will bind its body in holiday lights. Feed it water in a bowl for a little while, for as long as it keeps its sweetness, until you have no use for it anymore.
Cynthia Marie Hoffman is the author of three collections of poetry: Sightseer, Paper Doll Fetus, and Call Me When You Want to Talk About the Tombstones (all from Persea). She lives in Madison, Wisconsin.
