Monday, 10 October 2016

Poem for Monday: The Angels Go Away

by Fenella Johnson

They come in the restlessness of dawn
before the birds
when the world is a sleepy iris-
the sky chiselled with clouds,
borne through the sultry hips of the hills,
the Angels,
on a sweet souled Sunday,
diaphanous wings founded politely away in hand luggage.

Along the feline curves of the road,
they walk,
past the fields where flies in a haze of small fruits
bury themselves in the work of systematic consumption
of the bloodied blackberries,
to the cities that lay
like great open cellos by the gasping shore:
to glut themselves on wild berries and Mozart,
mushrooms that taste like sponges,
red velvet cake,porous lemon,
luminous baubles of grapes
-they spit out the seeds in pious circles,
red arid cocktails,
slyly the archaic dance of love.

Belly buttons
distant circular foreign
fascinate them:
up in their motel rooms
they wrap themselves around shower curtains
patterned with slender scales
as if they were the shredded skin of a mythical snake,
listen to the listless sighs of the seagulls outside

before they fall asleep.

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