This morning, there is an angel hanging by a thread,
cartoonish and carved out of soft wood. She twirls
circles above me, manipulated by the pulse
of a ceiling vent. Her purple dress is airless,
static, cut clumsy as the rest of her. I am laid out
below, open-legged like a pair of discarded scissors, rusting
in the grass. My starched hospital gown smells like driftwood
and bleach--natural rot and our chemical penance. The drugs
are taking effect. If I were an angel--without the weight of desire,
above the realm of human shame--I would never dress. My body
would be a collection of little prayers--the mouth of meeting
thighs, hanging breasts like bended knees, folds of skin
that soften the edges of my torso, thumbprint
dimples on my lower back, proof of God's touch.
As a young girl, I cradled a sweater stuffed
under my dress. Every childhood game began
or ended with the act of birth. The clothes closet:
a delivery room I entered alone, exited, arms wrapped
around a plastic doll, my fingers stained purple--grape ice-pop
dye. The Valium, the Demerol. The hum of the medical vacuum
like cicadas in the backyard. Outside my childhood
bedroom, the trees were so tall. They housed a hundred lives
in each of them. Many more, really. Outside this room,
there is an armed guard, bulletproof glass, the rest of my life.
