[Last update: 21 April 2003]

Angel

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.

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