Michael Brown, 18, due to be buried on Monday, was no angel.
—The New York Times
You always thought angels lived
in the dark. You didn’t sleep.
Appeared at the foot of Mom’s bed
covered in Nana’s perfume. You saw
and kept seeing. You let them
make a crescent of your spine.
The same thing over and over.
You don’t trust air. You call the ghosts
the angels your kin.
There is one who looks like your brother.
One in Nike shorts tastes sauce from
a wooden spoon and pours rum
into his brown on the stoop.
There’s one who brings the weed.
There’s one you call your brother.
They are already dead. They live
in the future. You see them because
you can’t sleep. You feel cold.
Angels with ringtones and child support.
Angels with PhDs. One in your bed.
One calculates the tip at brunch.
One colors inside the chalk line.
One walks with you into the disco
evening, radiating purposefully.
August rain is cold. The desert
is cold. Verdicts. Seasons.
Verdicts. Night. Blood. Saliva.
A cousin of a friend of a friend who brought
a six-pack, yes, perfect, let everyone in.
Your angels fly outfits, second chances.
Handguns, candy, cigars, mothers, mothers
for your angels and children for the mothers.
They spook. They blood and sage.
And when the policemen come to break
everythingan angel
in a polo shirt answers the door, says
officers I’m sorry
I’m not