a Journal of Poetry and the Arts
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When Angels Die
When angels die
their feet never touch the ground.
Summersaults round and around
inside your belly.
A second seems like eternity.
You are naive. You think your angel is impetus -
a hell raiser,
an Olympic champion -
death comes in twirls.
The next day -
at your four month sonogram,
you are told by a shocked nurse,
your angel is dead.
Yet your belly is still round -
still nourishing a dead embryo.
You are told to wait -
to let nature take it's course.
A week goes by.
Your belly is now flat.
Yet your angel has yet to touch ground.
Eight hours later
your child plops into porcelain.
A nurse scoops it up
and places it in a white blanket.
You study your child
as if he were just sleeping,
counting toes and fingers,
realizing his eyes are like yours.
You name him Andrew.