John Grey
The Angel and I
Angels were strictly for childhood.
They guarded me when I was at my most vulnerable.
Or guided me when I wasn't content with being dumb.
Even in the bedroom dark, something glittered behind my eyelid.
Or it sang saintly in my tiny ear.
I walked to school singing songs to Uriel.
And called on Michael to protect me from the bullies,
I had my own password into the dominions -
it was help me, somebody, anybody.
Angels expired eventually.
Or they retreated into old masterpieces.
They rose above the shoulders of old men with beards.
Their beatific faces protected the past,
the dead, the artist's commission.
When I look up these days, I see mostly pigeons.
Even the devout I know
reckon on their ascension
as being more esoteric
than an angel grabbing their hand
and lifting them skyward.
They've factored in centuries of scientific discoveries.
Galileo brought angels down to Earth.
Einstein clipped their wings.
I call you "angel" often
but not in any religious sense.
You don't appear to me in a golden glow.
Your crown's not orbited by a halo.
You're at the store now buying groceries.
They offer a ten percent discount
for benevolent celestial beings.
John Grey is an Australian poet and a U.S. resident. Recently he has been published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review, and Big Muddy Review, with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review, and Spoon River Poetry Review.
The Angel and I
Angels were strictly for childhood.
They guarded me when I was at my most vulnerable.
Or guided me when I wasn't content with being dumb.
Even in the bedroom dark, something glittered behind my eyelid.
Or it sang saintly in my tiny ear.
I walked to school singing songs to Uriel.
And called on Michael to protect me from the bullies,
I had my own password into the dominions -
it was help me, somebody, anybody.
Angels expired eventually.
Or they retreated into old masterpieces.
They rose above the shoulders of old men with beards.
Their beatific faces protected the past,
the dead, the artist's commission.
When I look up these days, I see mostly pigeons.
Even the devout I know
reckon on their ascension
as being more esoteric
than an angel grabbing their hand
and lifting them skyward.
They've factored in centuries of scientific discoveries.
Galileo brought angels down to Earth.
Einstein clipped their wings.
I call you "angel" often
but not in any religious sense.
You don't appear to me in a golden glow.
Your crown's not orbited by a halo.
You're at the store now buying groceries.
They offer a ten percent discount
for benevolent celestial beings.
John Grey is an Australian poet and a U.S. resident. Recently he has been published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review, and Big Muddy Review, with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review, and Spoon River Poetry Review.