To the Daughters of Sceva.

Somewhere I went blind in the conversation --

between the epidermis and the angels --

somewhere my stomach lost its way

amidst the tangles of a prayer and an

agony, an anger, and all I hate; here is a scar; there, the wounds:

all they breathe -- can we not form a circle, brethren,

an imperfect oval to scream at our oppressors?

But the images burn deeper than the words:
I took all the precious porcelein perfections,
pictured the angels skating across their smooth, body-washed shells,
saw the angels' traces, the less-porcelein pained faces,
the ethereal ballet,
the euphoria of one salt water ocean masked by another,
the liquid rose smiling at the black heart processional
projected to all as a cherry blossom joy.

I know not how many angels can dance
atop a pin, nor less do I know
how many have danced upon you --
what red slippers they wore, or
if they performed Swan Lake and the shell was the swan,
or if you ask for encores,
or if the show sells out -- and how often.

Yet I know this night hurt.
I know the heavens broke loose with a shout,
and archangels, legions with blessed wings,
trumpets of the spirit (the spirit is the sword),
they descended tonight upon my red tremors,
they did a pirouette and I have lost breath and
appetite, and I feel silence, clammy as death itself,
I have a need for Tylenol, and let me effuse:

Can I not cast out angels
nor summon the demons at my command?
Can I not have arms of such love
so as to encircle the universe?