The angels wear the faces of our dead
and stare at us from darkened corners
so the sun cannot glint on their blond heads.
Rather, they slink from daydreams to shadows
smelling of Chanel No. 5 and torn
family Bibles; their cadence, their low
tones let us pretend they are indeed ours
and not a nightmare with peeling faces.
We swallow hard and agree to burrow
deep into this illusion for how else
would we get to see their faces again?

So, they sip Manhattans, perch on soft
chairs, lightly holding cigarettes in taut
fingers, eyes narrowed. They look coldly at
us with their frostbitten eyes, holding court
about our failings. Their hair permed, nails scarlet,
knees slim, lashes darkly tinted. They note
each misstep, each hair out of place, quote
each stuttered word with a mocking high pitch
because someone has to teach us life’s bite
and might as well be their tough love first.
They show us the tininess of our might
against their glacial certainty. We’re caught
against their gaze, wrapped in their ashen light,
bound in their unceasing disappointment.