Raining

Poets are falling from the sky.
They are angels who have been melted
down for currency, and they are falling to earth
like freshly minted pennies from Heaven.
A dozen, a gross, a thousand, a million.
Who punched such a large hole
in God's purse?

On the ground, people wait
with butterfly nets and giant kettles
and upside-down umbrellas
to catch these bright copper meteors
with God's countenance embossed on one side
and bronze Phoenix feathers emblazoned on the other.
They want to sell them as Christmas gifts.
They want to use them in slot machines.
They want to place them under bell-jars
and exhibit them in biology classes.

But the poets are not reaching the earth.
Some burn up in the atmosphere
like sticks of incense gone mad
and then explode like time bombs.
Some dive into freeway traffic
and shatter like suicidal china dolls.
Others crack on rooftops and sizzle
like eggs in the Sun's heat.

Dear God, how many of your angels
will ever reach the earth safely?
Who will pull the rip cords in their straightjackets
and let them parachute softly to the ground?
Who will treat them for overexposure?
Who will issue them green cards
and let them tour Ellis Island?

Lord, they require so much attention!
They need to taste the Pacific's salt for breakfast
and still be fed ambrosia atop Mount Olympus for dinner.
They must have lush pine forests in the morning
and hear Madame Butterfly at l'Opera every evening.
I do not think they are well suited to being sold
as souvenirs. Christ, you put them here,
now act responsibly! Tend to them!

If I could, I would paint paper wings
on their backs and neon halos above their heads
until they could float back upwards,
Home.

November 15, 1989 - April 29, 1992
Background art created by Lara Antkowiak