Angels and Scars; Scars or Angels
In a parallel existence, we are pure-white
beings, flying abreast, tips of wings
touching-not-touching.
Midflight, I glimpse your scar;
the sweet pink, the stitched
skin that must have settled by now.
And we glide over
valleys and crags, meadows
carpeted green, dotted with crisp
lakes and red-roofed farms.
I have my scars too — carried
in the pocket of my breast
bone; kept warm under the feathers.
Riding a gale, or the golden breeze,
heading onward — always onward — we
are angels, nonetheless. Wounds aside.
No: angels for our scars.
Spreading wide wings, we swoop
down for the night; a hidden branch to nestle
close, head against a shoulder.
The air soon softens into rhythmic tunes:
serenading crickets, courting bullfrogs,
the occasional hoot of an owl.
And we fall asleep to the music.
Rinat Harel holds a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from the University of Exeter, England. Her writing has been published in various literary magazines and received several awards. She currently works on a poetry collection titled Poems from the Boidem.
Amethyst Review 