"Gabriel" by Jen Colclough
Gabriel
If Autumn is the most beautiful death,
then winter is its haunting.
A ghostly period on which
to bows,
hang
The decorative corpses
of a different season.
July and August are dead
— you killed them.
You light a cigarette beneath a
streetlamp, knowing this.
Two lights,
though unequal,
flicker on the edge of dawn.
What separates angels from ghosts is beauty.
To be haunted is to be cared for
in reverse.
To feel so loved by an absence that you fear it.
In a dream, I tell you this:
That on our knees we beg for angels,
while ghosts come to us willingly.
Angels are beautiful because we cannot touch them.
Ghosts are hideous because
they can touch us,
and they do.
Above us,
the lamplight flickers out.
[God is blinking.]
The difference between ghosts and angels is beauty.
A dying man thinks Gabriel is gorgeous,
but a dead man thinks the beauty lies with us.
That’s why they cannot look away — the ghosts.
They miss the way our bones are hidden on the insides of ourselves,
still awaiting burial.
And history,
you mutter beneath your smoking hand.
Ghosts have a history,
but angels do not need to.
Perfection cannot bear to have a past.
I’m always forgetting that part.
The part about time becoming us.
Dying,
you lift the cigarette to your lips.
Dying,
I wish the cigarette were me.
Has it always been like this?
Yes.
It has always been like this.
It will always be like this.
Photo Credit: Staff