Two Poems

Angel Invasion

Tuesday, my angels flounced up to my door
and knocked. Flustered, I shooed them away,

but they strutted in like benevolent
supermodels. Their blonde shoulders hummed

through the hallways, crowned
with sure halos. I swore that I hadn’t summoned them,

but they shrugged that they only came
when somebody begged. I tried to say that

I was making do. It didn’t hurt that much,
even though kid me would have cried and cried

at how much it hurt. Relentlessly they
condescended how feeble I was. The lanky

starlet, her long legs criss-cross applesauced
on the floor, majestically declared that they were here

to save me. After 3 weeks of the angels
languishing knees to TV, I’d had enough.

Frankly, I was mad that they were so
relaxed when they were supposed to cure me

& my shameful health. I convened them
on the slumped turquoise couch and announced

that anything good of mine had to be fake.
If miracles were real they would happen

to the routine churchgoing. Suddenly,
the angels organized themselves, normally lacy manners

hardening. The chubby cherub scoffed,
rose to meet my eye. He promised me that

I’d be cared for regardless of the Gods
I’d held. My angels would baby me, even

furnish me with supreme lottery luck,
because they were helplessly devoted. They’d

safeguard my havens, nurse me
to be wondrous with wholesome comfort.

He held out a hand to shake. You trust me?
You’re gonna be so, so happy.

Haibun for Shy Newness

The branches are laden with an inflated pink. Blatant blossoms unfurl from red aches to flourish. You’re here, March is here, you’re here, restless with rush. The florets crowd out the glowering traffic lights. You run like a madman, shoes a meter ahead of the rest of your body, ponytail in a chase.

Lucky favors by
launch rush here, flush manners with
cheek. Ever newborn.

French braids to pleated knees, holographic sneakers press browned petals on the 402 relenting to a stop. The pssh of the doors, and we hop out and toddle in a row. Here’s school!! The reassuring hug of backpacks, embarrassed chatter over the heaters, faces alive and cherry. Ribs swell when the announcements croon out. Lament while pushing yourselves up, but place a peaceful hand on your puffed left chest and pledge to be Korean. You hum a cheap K-Pop loop, you’re my honey baby. Just last week, snow had been shed and cried through your palms––you’d cried, too. Today, though, stapled papers chafe the rosy underbelly of thumbs. You can’t say you’re not grateful for the return.

Tradition says we must celebrate. We gather for an assembly where they speech about rules while nervousness warms the room. We manage to clap respectfully. Later, the processed melody choruses through the speakers, and names are exchanged for names for names. We tenderly match hand in hand.

You race against your
new classmate, run, fly freely
from the front entrance.

The downhill is ultramarine, electric. Even as your legs slam the pavement, the lukewarm kisses in the trees remain. You snag some in your mouth and they’re tough.

You’re bashful because
you’re relieved. Newness murmurs
to rumple our mouths.

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