Angels and Scars; Scars or Angels

In a parallel existence, we are pure-white

beings, flying abreast, tips of wings

meet ever so slightly.

Midflight, I glimpse your scar;

the sweet pink, the stitched

skin that must have settled by now.

And we glide over

valleys and crags, meadows

carpeted green, dotted by crisp

lakes and red-roofed farms.

I have my scars too—carried

in the pocket of my breast

bone; kept warm under the feathers.

Riding a gale, or the golden breeze,

heading onward—always onward—we

are angels nonetheless.

No: angels for our scars.

Spreading wide wings, we swoop

down for the night; a hidden branch to nestle

close, head against shoulder.

The air soon softens into rhythmic tunes:

serenading crickets, courting bullfrogs,

the occasional hoot of an owl.

And we fall asleep to the sounds.