This smashed butterfly—
a tapestry of colors:
feathers on cement.
We meet briefly in the crowded doorway
before being separated within.
Our own sadness,
& longing for a connection
are represented by all of these lights
that turn us into chameleons.
In the powder lines
we reintroduce ourselves as
together we dance to a song
we can barely decipher
before we collapse to the floor
confusing our dreams with desire.
To the man in front of the apartment complex
who told me so as I walked home
at 11 PM as a sophomore in high school.
I’m glad that you noticed,
I wonder what tipped you off first?
Was it the flaming claymore that I carry on my back?
Or was it my wings, the size of a small vehicle,
That stretch out behind me, still dusty with particles of heaven?
I hope you don’t say that it’s my eyes:
That’s what most people say.
They can see that they carry the weight of having seen God in his glory,
Having seen him enact his justice and mercy
Upon his creation.
Let me see, was it the halo that has sunken around my neck
Taking the form of a golden chain,
Or was it this blazing, pale complexion
That cuts through wherever darkness lies?
Perhaps it’s because you’ve never seen me before;
After all, you only see angels when they’re in disguise,
So since you're so knowledgeable, how have you seen through mine?