by
Walter Bargen
Beside the empty
plates the folded wings of angels. The scepters of knife,
fork, and spoon lie
on the table. The diner's etiquette
calls for feathers
to be dabbed at the
corners of mouths. Lipstick and gravy
trace the zenith
of flight. Wings fluttering across laps are the
zeitgeist of arousal,
and reason enough
for cravings. A few guests still don't
understand
and become uneasy
when a hand reaches under the table to caress
their angelic
longings. The table cloth rich with
spilled burgundy, traces
the borders of
intoxicated continents that wait to be explored by a pair
of fallen tongues,
and later with the soft panting of wings.
There are
angels with
insulated wings that hold up the heated corners of hell
and a flaming
fondue. They keep vigil by the oven
door to escort
a roasted soul to
the carving block. In the living room
the crowd
is growing
anxious; between the sofa and the
ceiling Saint Albert
tallies four hundred
million of the winged. Kabalists
wearing zircon
rings agree. One wet white blur works the four thousand
nine hundred names
of God. Another is half fire, half ice. The spooked guests begin to think
angels everywhere,
even converting the kitchen witch. No
matter
how humble and
discrete the conception, because the guests can think
of God at all, must
mean there is God. They'll argue
details and style
over another glass
of wine. On the radio by the couch,
it's reported
that an artillery
shell exploded on a table in the crowded market
of a besieged
city. Sirens sailed loudly through the
air for hours.
Because men can
conceive of death, they have become its overheated engines.
In the dining room,
Saint Albert performs the Heimlich
on the host choking
on a buffalo wing, her face turning sky blue.
Rising Flocks first
appeared in Icarus Anthology.