Gabriel, the light of God is
in your face, the gold of it
loaning its color to your skin.

Your eyes are black as lies,
the center of your gravity,
the darkest part of the bruise.

I don't know what to make of you.
When you're not whispering love
words, you tuck them into poems.

Small paper treasures, I fold them
up and put them in my mouth, to
swallow, so no one else will see.

If I tell myself that you are
not bound to this Earth, belong
to Heaven instead, an abstract,

then your wings brushing past
me won't sting so much. I'll
take the turn of your back on

me as divine. Clutch a molted
grey feather, say a grim prayer,
let Him have what He would take.

03/13/2004

Author's Note: One of two poems for the last round of the slam at writing.com, of which I was the winner. The prompt was faces, a Jekyll face and a Hyde face. This is the Jekyll face, obviously. For the Hyde face, go here: "The Angel, Mid-Descent"

Posted on 03/14/2004
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