[Last update: 21 April 2003]


by Susan Bright

Born of thunder and rage legs splayed to bleed out typhoid, thieves crawling like ants from flaccid breasts, the Angel lolls on the underside of prayer in a small Texas town fresh painted, fat with the industry of war, tight lipped with the scorn of a new prison contract. Meanwhile lights are out in Baghdad and 7 thousand years of art and knowledge are dust blow to the wrath hole of an empire monger ‹ Leaving me to wonder who I saw this Easter morning just before waking. She looked like an angel to me, ‹ light streaming around a woman bent to kiss the belly of an infant in her arms, surrounded by darkness ‹ I think perhaps she was the angel who refused to go war.

-- 30 --

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