Illuminate

As girls, we made halos with our hands
after fastening wings to our backs with safety pins.
Floating down the halls of our subdivided homes,
we sang in airy voices, hoping bells would ring.
�We are angels,� we said to our mothers.
They smiled and went back to making dinner,
washing the dishes, doing laundry. It was a dangerous
dream we harbored. They already knew this:
knew that God never made a way
for angels to land. Only crash down, wings
broken and bent behind their backs. A secret shame.