Soft Armored Angel

In a dream, three days after she passed away was the last time I saw her. 

We lay in my childhood bed. She complained to me about the cold metal table and the cramped conditions of the box prior to incineration. As usual, I offered a half hearted, weary apology for my woefully inadequate attempts to further the progression of our lives. 

Then I awoke.

What happened after the gas valve was opened and the flint sparked, I have no idea. My prayer is that it led her to a place where she could find some measure of peace and glimmers of happiness. Such were unfamiliar components in her life, at least for as long as our association lasted. 

I recall photographs of her as a young girl in a wild summer garden with her silken soft golden dog, both smiling amidst hibiscus and jasmine, the eyes of both innocents wide portals cast open, unaware of the devil that had already entered and young war torn love letters to the soldier she sometimes wished she never had married and echos of the mistake they wished never to have committed that January night in the embittered cold that demanded an embrace from those ensconced by tatters of broken illusions. Years forward unfolding into screams of 'I wish I never had you!' responded with 'Too bad you never learned how to use a condom!'

To those of me who remain, these razors may recede, but do not die, unlike us to each other, leaving the still earthbound to untangle and decipher the bramble of briars that was supposed to be our life. Fingers enmeshed as one, our emissaries and us crossing the highway. After the fact realizing that they were as blind as we, the only difference being the compassion that cruelty instilled. 

Who desecrated your grave

before we ever laid you down

spray-painting atrocities

upturning swastikas

arsonized your home 

vandalized your sonnets 

with obscenities

and fucked you senseless

without mercy?

Never will I find them

I can provide no justice 

for your battered legacy

No lyrics adequate

to replace 

that which was smudged 

from your diary

no caress could shelter you

from the truancy 

of your guardian angel

who fell asleep 

beneath the tree

where you were hanged

A life that stank

of endless artic night

vipers beneath the snow

snapping at your heels.

No sun above your head

to illume your halo

or defrost your wings.

No water clear enough

to wash your soiled robes.

I love you

in spite of your hatred.

The distant shore 

on which you now stand

I imagine sparkles

with a sand of diamonds

kissed by an ocean 

of sapphires

and a grand ruby 

implanted in the center 

of your hollowed heart.

My soft armored angel,

St Francis brings you now 

lions who purr 

at your touch

while sandalwood breezes

untangle the mandala

of your tortured hair.

Particles of carbon

that once passed 

through your tear ducts

create now reflecting pools  

evoking the shadows

I found in the closet

wherein I was punished

and would hide

grinding the salt and water

out of my eyes

attempting to understand

the bed where you flailed

and were raped

the tightropes 

and eggshell land mines

upon which you walked

the hours and minutes 

days and lifetimes 

you spent slaughtering

your faith in me

all that surrounded us

and every offering of peace

I ever extended to you.

Except at the end

when I laid you down 

upon my childhood bed

and you said

'I lay on that floor 

all night

praying for angel 

to help me get up

and it was you 

that walked in'

With all my love,

Max