An Angel in Waiting
prose poem, completed at 12:32 EST on 7.11.24
“How many layers do I need to take off for you to see me?”
She has never been seen. Not once, not yet; she floats like a piece of dust in the bright-clouded sky. Inanimate, waiting, a hopeful piece of capitalist decay. She melts, visually, into the cold crescent moon. A catalyst.
Waking dreams feel like sleep deprivation. She makes calculations, deductions, wishes, and calls out desperate prayers. Silent in stairwells, or, now, on the platform, waiting for the train.
When does motherhood start? When does the rest of life begin, again and again? She has taught herself she cannot edit her writing while stoned. She has taught herself to be quieter. She has taught herself to expect nothing, and be pleasantly surprised at any consistency of the specks of crumbs among dust layers of her past. Her body, feathered and soft, melts, again, but this time into the sun.
