an homage to Anne Sexton’s ‘Angel of the Love Affair’
to my unborn
Angel of Water and Doubt
Angel of water and doubt, do you know woes,
that simple deed that forced my hand,
who put me in charge of this combining form, that feigning
blues where I was woman and he was man?
I said, ‘I can act like a lady, but a woman would take some work’
Then I yielded to him and he blessed me.
Embryo, you of wild audacity,
taking me down and loosening my waist,
you are the silence in the middle of the night,
you are the crackling sound like burnt wood in my joints,
taking some iron, taking some calcium, taking some folic acid
and little bits of me altogether.
Angel of Queen-sized beds
Angel of Queen sized beds, do you know fatigue?
Once it took over like a heat wave
as I laid in a sleepless daze,
as pinched at the breast like baby’s cheeks.
Little beads of sweat. One hundred tears in the dark.
Silk sheets smelling of Cabernet Sauvignon and primrose oil,
have everything to do with this night discomfort,
everything to do with guilt and many other outcomes
and all the repents to the Lord, the ultimate judgement.
I have sacrificed sleep.
I have sacrificed eating.
I have known singularity. I have known the waving tassel of freedom
but inside of me waits the spoils of my gallivant.
Angel of Eyes and Choices
Angel of eyes and choices, do you know prayer,
that vigorous drop to the knees and bent arms?
You are remorseful. You have bloodshot eyes.
The feeling in your toes go numb. The only feeling is numbness.
I don’t recall the last time I’ve eaten. And in minutes,
A simple thought comes to my mind.
In this moment I have made a decision.
I have become the thing I judged so harshly,
conceived unexpectedly and had to abort. My body
persistent. Part of me anguished. Part of me complying.
Angels of Choice, you reveal, you ignore, you command
you pull out of me the naivety that was lodged in the back of my throat.
Angel of Bicker and Molasses
Angel of bicker and molasses, do you know hope?
That stickiness of confrontation seeps in the cracks,
that courage subsides to doubt,
that doubt reflects in his actions,
where he was once savior and a sweet remembrance, he is neither.
There is no place in me to pour his judgement and no room for his mother’s prudence.
In time he would see this as necessary.
Your mind may be saying otherwise.
In time he will know the regret in my own heart. Your heart too.
Your life would not be one of conditioning and neither scrutiny.
You will have an altar made for praise. Your birthstone would have
been garnet. Your spirit animal, a blue jay.
Angel of Babies and BlueJays
Angel of babies and blue jays, do you know karma,
those past life doings that streaks our family tree in a ruby-red dust?
You are the low-hanging fruit that the Gods will judge us for.
Let me now, ask the questions we are all afraid to know,
Let me now, pick out the rotten fruits that will not serve us,
as the others are ripen to perfection.
Once I am ready, I will come for them.
Who better to know when it is the right time than me.
She of the magic that is covering, she of the mahogany
woodwork of mothers of mothers who love deeply. She of the bone and dust,
In due time it will see its day.
Angel of Sage and Wine
Angel of sage and wine, do you know submission?
Six weeks of recovery and wearing all black.
My body feels like my own again. I cut all of my hair.
At a glance I look as if a crisis has taken over me. The house looks the same.
And the cats keep their distance,
as if they know I am not happy.
Once I can breath in and not smell a scent of honeysuckle on the air,
with the exception of drinking the same bottle of wine.
Once I can look at myself in the mirror and recognize this woman staring back,
watching my belly sternly, as I do when I glance at the moon,
for me to move on is for me to mourn.
And so I do,
at the makeshift altar at the window pane. Once I was young and raging,
and now I am deferred, making room for other things to take its place.