not all angels come from heaven.

some claw their way up from below,

shaking clods of dirt from their wings:

filthy, matted things with feathers

crumpled and all bent the wrong way,

muscles stiff and sore from disuse

(flight’s forbidden in hell’s caverns).

broken, bleeding fingernails that

dug through unforgiving earth for

miles and miles—until sunlight was

finally, blessedly tasted—

scab and scar, reminding of the

hardships long endured to get here.

 

they were holy, too, you know. once.

someday they’ll be holy again.

till then, let that angel inside.

sit him by the fire to be warmed.

wash him well with soap and water.

dry his wings until they’re fluffy,

wings he’ll wrap around you in thanks.

he can be good if you’ll let him.

all he ever wanted was to

reclaim his divinity.