ANGEL BENDING OVER ME

Magdalena Alagna    

"Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and
whispers, 'grow, grow' The Talmud

My angel plays the trumpet,
But always jazz, and
Disdains the harp.

My angel is a transvestite;
Smeary-eyed and delicately tough.

My angel sings for its supper.
Eats jambalaya and loves cashews.

Oh, my angel is a little bit tawdry.
Nothing ethereal, certainly.
Wears too much make up and goes around
With seams in the stockings always crooked.
Puckish, for sure, but languid And sexy all the same.
Part Geisha. Part cow-hand.
Whispering grow grow and flexing muscles
Like puppies in a sack.

Angel, you smell like poundcake or strawberries burning.

One day I passed through you
Like a heat shimmer
And you clung to my fingers in sugar crystals,
Though just as often you are salt and sweat.
You announce yourself with a sitar
And run around for days barefoot,
Suddenly appearing in fuck-me pumps.

Sometimes on the street, I feel
Your breath hot on my shoulders
And I am melting and moulded
In an angel's hands like Venetian glass.