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on the two angels that visited me at work
matching white coats, dirty from being on earth too long; a kaleidoscope of color inside the younger one’s hood
they are mean to each other, but that’s just how angels are. it’s all they know. the taller one rolls its eyes— all of them— every time the younger one can’t make up xer mind. the younger calls it a slur in a language no one can speak.
more than a few dollars short for the wire cutters and sealant they need, so I hand them a twenty.
the taller one insists it doesn’t know me, I don’t see how that matters, so I tell it, “it’s a gift.”
but the word “gift” feels like the word “offering”
a last ditch attempt to appease a god who ignored me all my life
maybe this is a last piece; a last peace, a treaty.
and echoes in my mind whisper:
“be kind to strangers
lest they be angels in disguise”