here I am trying to talk to angels again, the ones
who look like pale amber outlines of light who can’t
speak or see in the earthly realm and who aren’t at all
like Gabriel or Michael. no, these angels are like aliens
with their nonhuman caverns and faceless auras. humans
want to tell you they are like us but you can’t listen.
I peel oranges and think about how another version of me
is probably spreading thin rings of blood on the floor of this
apartment in god-knows-where Illinois. the line doesn’t connect
so I wait for the angels to call back. this is what it means to be friends
with the bees while people think you’re harvesting a farm of wasps
to use in satanic rituals in the public shower of your local YMCA.
when they finally return my call I say sorry
it’s been so long, my mom thought I needed an exorcism
and I don’t think I should keep a copy of Anton Lavey’s
bible for fun anymore even though satanists don’t believe
in satan just like extremists don’t believe in extremes
and optimists don’t believe in optimism, not fully.
and the angels, with their wispy glow and obsession
with triple sixes, say all they can through a spine-cold
shiver. they say I have to let humans be humans and
satanists be extremists and orange-eaters be optimists.
I know exactly what this means, that I need to be okay with
the blood and bees and pools of things that aren’t really there
but look like they are. I have been both angel and earthling,
afraid of myself and afraid of the aliens. I’ve watched
as the other version of me lies face up inside a circle
and waits for the smallest of sounds, for anything.
INSTANT NOODLES 