The first angels were swarthy,
stooped, hairy, with sloping foreheads
and crested skulls,
arms down to the knees.
In place of wings
they had two parachutes of skin,
a kind of black flying squirrel
in the volcanic winds.
Totally trustworthy,
They performed outstanding miracles
Transubstantiations. Metamorphoses
of mud into mudfish.
A rocking horse
inflated to heavenly size,
atomic fusion at room temperature,
holding the mirror up to the spectator,
stirrings of consciousness,
creating the majesty of death.
They worked hard.
They tinkered with graves.
They swam in murky waters.
They huddled in oviducts.
They hid behind the door.
They waited
They waited in vain.
Someone shared this poem with me a few days ago. I can’t decide whether I find it beautiful, frightening or depressing. Or perhaps all three. What do you think?
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
I love it, but then again, I have been looking for God lately in dark places.
It certainly isn’t an easy poem, and that makes me like it even more.
I think it’s beautiful and strange. I think I love it. With each reading I love it a bit more.