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| Joakim Skovgaar. "Ulver og Vænelil" (1898) |
So tiny, they flit inside my palm, sweet crumbs of cake, spicy little flecks
that burn.
Angels swarming from my books, scattering my papers, jumbling the clothing
in my closet, displacing the moths. Nights, they buzz my ears, like mosquitoes.
Mornings, the sheets so laden with angels, I can barely move.
I am careful catching them. Even when they fight, bite my thumbs
with spiky angel teeth, I carry them tenderly, nudge them onto the pin.
It stands in its own cushion: white velvet, plush as a cherub’s butt.
This act — balancing angels, one onto another — does not
make me God. Far from it.
(I tried for years to balance my life on the head of a pin — all my desires
and doubts, my pain — but I was clumsy and
pricked myself more than once. Eventually, the pin snapped.)
I organise angels in neat rows, tidy stacks and pyramids. I know
this tidying will give me space to think, make changes long overdue.
Michelle Penn. Poet of the Month, October: Michell Penn. The Lonely Crowd. Publicado el 12 de octubre de 2025.
