We all want wings. I’ll buy mine, sinewy, made of steel, lifting me high until men scuttle below,
bees on fruit sucking up juice, spinning honeyed magic.
I’ll become a bee myself, settle on the big apple’s skin, sleep curled in a cocoon of Times Square dreams and spotlight beams. I’ll skitter along the seam that lies between the Atlantic and the land, find the hand of the man who was born to die to live again.
I’ll take his fingers on my tongue.
Tarry sands have damned my ocean of gold. This river runs thin. Twenty-two angels have turned their coats leaving me with just three pennies and a note my father wrote me:
“Stay strong until the end, and when The Man calls you’ll know it’s time to soar.”
So I wait for the phone to ring. Winds roar, threatening the walls of this cabin in the woods. Day-of-directions are no good. I must be given the time to rise. I’ll do anything to find God. I’ll scale the Empire State Building, but tickets to heaven are twice the price when you don’t buy them in advance. I don’t have cash to chance it.
My eyes burn with a billion calendar suns. Moon phases phase me. I want numbers, man, the day the hand will slide into my mouth.
Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday?
God, rig the game in my favor, you dig? Dot my dreams with specificity. If you can’t speak yourself, send a saint. Peter knows shit. I listen to the secrets scribbled behind his smile. He was always the rock, and I knew it. (Who knew The Son’s #1 wore flannel?) I haven’t seen him in a while. Tell him I say “thank you.”
Also, say: “St. Peter, the queen wants a fortune teller, a crystal ball, a string of tarot cards. The whys have been scribbled in the space behind her eyes for centuries. She has the where. She wants some whens. Send her a clock, a calendar page, and then she will deign to offend the river, lift what’s left of her gold to her lips and drink it.”
We all want wings. I’ll buy mine, gossamer webs of spring.
I’ll trade him seven strands of the Magdalene’s hair for a divot dug in the side of an hourglass, marking the week a goddess dons a disguise, wanders across the land, licks electric liberty’s torch, drains all that’s left in her dwindling stream
for one last chance to drink from the hand of God.