I don’t know how angels feel
about our struggles and hungers,
our fragile, beyond-control
flesh. Did these haloed ones
have bodies once,
and somehow get promoted to gossamer?
Or have they always lived on clouds
of our imagination, listening
to lyre hits as the sky
recycles its blues?
Why do we imagine we’d be happier
up there? Our natures being
what they are, we’d probably gripe
about altitude sickness or envy
the gold in another’s curls. Isn’t
their satisfied expression what we’re
really after, a smug glow
available to all of us
if we could pause and listen
for the beating of wings.