It was my fault. I took a drink, angels offer
no velvet cure, nor peaches in their laps for me
nor girlhood span of years to doubt their choices
at the crosshairs of one chronic location. Barefoot
in a shabby chair in a borrowed office on campus
she lets me finish the rehearsed poem of blame, numb
veil down arm, the quiet no to acned chin approaching
mine, the instant assessment of his intent and the decision
not to feel. Angels tuck like every doe their necessary
hooves beneath themselves with fur side facing fawn
to better rest in shade of tree. But I’m no fawn, this girl
too young to be my mother. Beyond cracked door a man
in tool belt gripping toolbox enters without knocking.
Of my stiffening she apologizes, He’s here to fix the copier.
His back to us, he does his job while she resumes
hers, folds her legs, grasps her ankles
leans towards me, her little voice encircling us both
like a cocoon or some indigo dusk’s moon ring or crystal
astral pod feathered white like Midwest windows in winter
in which I could suddenly see the holographic self
portioned out like a broken mirror held loosely in its frame
There were two of you with bodies in the room–
Which one of you chose to enter yours by force?