Teresa is sleeping; it is mid-morning.
I listen to news of the war in heaven
On the radio.
Michael is tired. Gabriel can’t get the word out.
All the saints are being put in their graves by The Faithful.
Teresa has prophetic dreams. A new born in the wilderness, that is a fallen star, that will
Dim and become a demon.
Another new born, another star, again to become a demon, on and on forever,
Always a blood tide darkening the sky.
Teresa wakes up, is sitting cross legged on the bed, with all the stars held in the palms of her
She watches the universe, as it grows and dies out and grows again, sees every scene before the angels of devotion and hunger.
The news goes on and I am weary. But I remember when we were teenagers, and when we took the Oath of Angels.
I remember when we sealed our hearts and our bravery to the silver light, and hope that loss could mean something.
We fight on.