The Messenger Angel, is eating cold cereal in my kitchen.
They are watching the birds on the naked limbs of winter trees.
They are lost in thought, maybe composing a revelation for someone.
Awkward and abashed, I try to think of the words, or something,
the right invocation, or obscure formula that formulated at the
beginning of time for one such as this.
The Messenger Angel wipes away the milk from their lips
with the back of their forearm, then lips the bowl to their
lips, greedily drinks the sugary milk.
I make to sit in front of them, on the other side of the table,
but just stand in the entrance to the kitchen. I don’t look them
in the eye.
The bids sing, the house is cold, and The Messenger Angel
puts down the bowl. They look at me and sigh, standing up
“I’ve already told you what I came here to tell you.
I am not your judge, or enemy, and I am your friend.
It’s all up to you now.”
The Messenger angel walks past me, and my eyes are
still down and pull away from them as they pass,
and go out the door.