Winter 1999 • Vol. XXI No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1999 |

Emissary

for Uriel When you ask me why Raffaello died what can I tell you but he consigned himself to flying. There was nothing in the sky that week to warn me. The traffic did not change direction. No goslings on the river's bank. What can I tell you but how he filled my eyes with knapweed. How pregnancy estranged me. A fish in a paddock. A magnolia growing inside a cat.A time of shake-down and dream-fabric. What had been real to me had changed. When you will ask why, ask steadily. I am not prepared for this. I held the breath you were born into. I armor this field of your cotton. When you rise in the morning I am there, in love but not immaculately sent. He sat up all night long on a Boston rooftop,the lights of the Square lengthening and then retreating beneath him. The moon was full, the air as heavy as my sleep. At daybreak a woman, looking out her window, saw himfalling. Perhaps the close fluttering of the angels' wingshad tempted him at last.

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Impiety

By Meg Tyler

for Uriel When you ask me why Raffaello died what can I tell you but he consigned himself to flying. There was nothing in the sky that week to warn […]

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