When Bad Angels Love Women (a poem by Julie Moulds Rybicki)

When the bad angel loves
the woman next door,
the motion wakes me.
The tip of one of his
purple-veined wings
moves right through our walls.
It lifts and falls
as the two of them, a wind
like blue leather pulsing
through this house.
She packs cartons
of eggs like I do, during days,
with other women and boys
on a line. But home,
there is this angel.
His kiss, like a scorpion’s,
marks her now, and suddenly
I have seen her tilting
out of time. When her
night voice winds
like a leather wind,
I know he is there.
She goes to him now
and he eats her
like a young apple,
the way men eat a woman
in a dark alley
until she is gone.
One day, he is with her always
his windy presence
rolling the eggs
from our cartons.
The ladies and I are tired
of all this breaking;
tired of seeing dollar-sized
bites disappear
from her neck. She
is the color of blueberries
on cheesecloth.
Antlers of the bones
of wings break her back.
Luminescent, like blue neon,
she tries to fill her cartons,
but the eggs
slip through her hands.
I could hear him each night
eat her soul,
I say to the ladies on the line
the day she disappears.
The whole house could hear
while we stacked
our wet plates,
his giant wings spreading
like a fan.


One Response to “04.13.2008”

  1. I ordered her book. Soon…

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