JOHN CIARDI
Salvation’s angel in a tree
Stared out at Blake, and stares at me
From zodiacs of colored bells,
And colored lights, and lighted shells,
A cherub’s face above a sheet:
No arms, no torso, and no feet,
But winged and wired against the Fall,
And a paper halo over all—
A nineteen-hundred-year-old doll
In a drying tree. What does it see?
The house is sleeping; there’s only me
In the cellophane snow by the lethal toys
That wait all night for the eager boys:
Metal soldiers, an Indian suit,
Raider’s tools, and gunner’s loot.
I mash my cigarette, and good night,
Turn off the angel and the light
On a single switch. The children toss
In excited sleep. Alone in the house,
I feel the old, confusing wind
Shake the dark tree and shake my mind,
Hearing tomorrow rattle and bang
Louder than all the angels sang.
By feel, I lower the thermostat
And pick my way through a creaking flat.
The demon children, the angel doll,
Sleep in two darks off one dark hall.
I move through darkness memorized,
Feeling for doors. One half-surprised
Wish stays lit inside my head.
I leave it on and go to bed.
1947