Poetry

My brother, when did rage become your station?

Jesus says, Woe to your puritan work ethics.

And therefore, all the more believable,
That God sent a tiny angel with a chinstrap made of feathered jewels,

All night, God peers from his gilded case,
nothing to do but wait for morning

God dwells in the thick darkness

that primal howl of grief, guilt,
anger, fear at the telegram:
“Sylvia died today.”

a golden halo around her black
braids, and telepaths faith, faith,
faith.