The parson’s daughter walks down the street.
Her ear buds have a soft and lilting backbeat.
An angel, non-binary, sings of stricken wheat.
An angel, non-flesh, says we are death so sweet.
The parson’s daughter knows she walks quiet.
She is a girl, her true self, and will not deny it.
The parson is in Knoxville, away from the riot.
He never touched her face, could only defy it.
Long hair, gold today, black tomorrow, soft.
An angel makes the daylight kind from aloft.
An angel does not reproduce, not broken so oft.
She was an angel when she sang in the choir loft.
And the music stops for a moment, a morning still.
Saturday, 7am, by the private university, monied will.
Will anyone ever touch her face, on that cemetery hill?
Her face, a shell, not like angels, whom only light fills.