I saw a crashed angel
full of lice,
and a priest who wouldn’t see him.
Someone (a girl of nine, perhaps) screamed,
“You dunghill of a man, help him!
Don’t you see he’s dying?”
But the angel was judged filthy,
too unprofitable, too un-helpable, not holy at all—
Heaven needed none of his broken ribs.
I ran to get help,
climbed a fence between two houses,
and bumped into a little girl:
she was as mean as a goose, and
dressed in the same color
for Sunday Mass…
But her brothers had wetted all the white
with red liquid pieces of her,
and were watching her dry on the clothesline.
after tongue dancing to
“The Song of Despair”,
I write the hurt of a filthy angel,
while wondering about vacant-eyed boys
and their air-dried sister goose.
NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero, Day 1 – The Birth of Your Art: “Base your first poem on the first work of art that inspired your creative addiction.”
My love for reading and writing fiction began after experiencing Gabriel García Márquez’s “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings” and Horacio Quiroga’s “The Decapitated Chicken”. Poetry came much later, through the words of Pablo Neruda; particularly, Memoirs and Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.