By Natasha Butler-Rahman
THE MOTIONS OF THE ANGELS
The motions of the angels
Those who dance leaning on the arm of the overgrown purple iris,
just like you.
Those who explore the “posthumous” life side by side.
The calls from the sick
wrapping over the two girls
just as though the helpless were right there.
It seldom felt heavy—
the pain must have been overtaken
by the celestial intricacies of love,
sweet on the tongue,
like fresh water in August.
The severe might have been lost along with
the waning air of desperate things.