My mother’s angels

of our resilience

After my father left my mother

and I used to walk through

our little suburban alcove

comment on the hydrangeas and smile

carrying their vitality, like pollinators

wherever we stepped, and still

we missed him, sought him out

in signs upon the brush such as

a butterfly, writhing through the weeds

or perhaps our subtle creature was dancing the kind of dance

that can injure you if you’re not prepared

the kind of flesh-revelation to which some dedicate their lives

pain and pleasure, it’s all the same

what’s left is grass on the lawns, puddles

under our boots, and weary we wander like

ghosts through the green imagining how

it might have been otherwise if only

we had known he would be there

when we opened the door

In dreams, I merge with her

in flight, a butterfly

purple, speckled pink, all sparkles

my thoughts turn vibrant as a toddler’s

my consciousness as if I’ve been propelled

through time back to before my father made up his mind

that summer, the walls needed a fresh

coat of paint and the painter was supposed

to come the following week which was when I realized what would happen

not unlike the time the termites swallowed the whole living room

and we had to watch helplessly as they devoured our furniture

yet somehow it was worse, because there was always an exterminator

we just hadn’t found it yet in other words

loss never really gets any better

there’s no way to rid of it entirely

That fall, my mother explained that the angels

appear in the clouds like a single line of cotton

slicing through the blue — magic

stunning, it really was, and so was she

though shedding weight and tears at such a rate

I could not keep up

with her stride, she always walked so fast

eventually I caught up to her, close enough

to hear the beating of her heart and watch her eyes

wander, again, to the butterfly, each time

a different form, but always the same angel

to her, the same angel as appeared in clouds

and in me, like the angel couldn’t fathom

shape so instead took on the infinite which is

why my mother wanted

more than anything to take on

the world of the spirit since she

was always part of it, like the cloud

it is as if, for her, the cloud is meant

to swallow the sky, so the whole sky

becomes an angel

she wants to become an angel

I do not follow my mother’s religion

which is less a religion and more an image

come to life

decisively, like a cartoon, the angel

manifests as the solution, and I yearn

for something like that

yet I pray at my mother’s altar

God only knows how many times

I’ve forsaken my knowing for this fantasy

which, in truth, seems more real

than anything I’ve ever found in books

holy or otherwise

forgive my blasphemy

this is my mother, after all

and I cannot help myself

I love her angels as my own

just as I am hers, her images belong

to my heart, which formed in her

perhaps this is why she believes in angels

more than she believes in God of Books

honestly, I get it

If I were her, I wouldn’t give God of Books

a second glance because perhaps I’d feel

as if I found my answer in spirit

that could never be found in words alone

Maybe women need a language for God

that cannot be spoken by men, a world

of intangibles that dangle on the precipice of blasphemy, which we reclaim

as warriors returned from battle

to celebrate how we protect our own

we circle around the ones we love

guard them with our lives

we are all mothers for one another

I look up at my mom, see myself

in her eyes shining with knowledge

of the presences that surround us

loving us for loving one another

and just like that

I become my mother’s angel

and she becomes mine