I believe in angles.
I believe the angels believe in me.
I believed in angels for as long as I can remember.
Angels believed in me since last week, Tuesday.
At least, last Tuesday is when I heard their prayers
in the dark solitary of my bedroom after midnight.
The angels sat at the edge of my bed with prayers
and discussed minimalist philosophies.
I decided to strip useless static from my brain,
so I turned off the TV, threw away the paper, moved to the country.
The angels followed me to the country
once the clouds curtained the heavens from the earth.
A tragic thought entered my heart,
what if my angels are the reported fallen angels?
And that is why they only show up late into the night,
when the dark deepens without the moon
and the old light from distant suns
paints the window with pointillist teardrop glows.
The angels who gather at the edge of my bed,
recite Whitman, Harjo, Forché, Neruda, and Glück.
I realize they are neither fallen nor heavenly angels,
but my angels—poetry taking its night-time form.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
The words “I turned off the TV, threw away the paper, moved to the country” paraphrase part of the chorus from the John Prine song, Spanish Pipedream. Link to the song’s lyrics.