The angels are afraid of death,
Since like us they are earthly born,
Vessels dreading the end breath,
Eyes on paradise. They're not
Let in by wing alone– they burn
And ache their best to have a shot
Up there, confessing awful things,
Shaking off their shameful deeds,
And fair flesh still easily bleeds
(Hell always has room for wings).
A deity needs no heavenly beings,
But anything that fiercely pleads
With men to be received in even
The dimmer vicinities of heaven.
E.M. Darnell is a tutor and floor tech in Fremont NE, and has also been a phlebotomist, hotel supervisor, editorial assistant, farmhand, devout recluse, and incurable brooder-- leading to near auto collisions. He received his MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop, and has published poems in The Lyric, Eclectic Muse, Skidrow Penthouse, Candelabrum, Quantum Leap, Aries, Ship of Fools, and has forthcoming poems in The HyperTexts, Form Quarterly and Open Minds Quarterly.