Summer 1993 • Vol. XV No. 3 Poetry |

The Table

The angel is in love with her. He wants to break his contract as the messenger. He wants to speak for himself. But what terror in choosing the dreck of human romance, to feel wing-feathers scatter to the winds; worse, to have to eat, to kneel at her altar, he who's never so much as tasted water, his airy gorge rising at those communions; the bread not even bread but always tasting like human flesh, the wine rich, disgusting as blood. Yet he'd eat at her board, he'd grow bones for her; if he could encounter her by chance somewhere, a garden say, even he might offer her some food, some fruit or something.

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