angel in a laundromat
the angel sits on top
of one of the washers, kicking
their not-feet in time
to the laundromat muzak,
humming along with
their guttural half-here
half-off in a distant
otherworld voice.
you’ve been watching
the angel for some time,
as they put their bloodied
robes & ragged sandals
on a spin cycle for delicates,
as they poured in soap
& counted out quarters,
but it’s only as you fold
your now dry duvet
that you realize their wings
are covered in a thousand
red eyes. you look at what
should be their face
& find the swirling
of the stars instead.
‘good morning,’ you say
as you pass them on your way
out. the angel grabs your arm.
their touch burns like ice
& makes you ache. ‘your son,’
the angel whispers, ‘tells me
that he is so so proud
of how you got sober. i placed
one hundred forty four
red roses in a vase
by your door. i will be back
next sunday should you need
to talk to someone.’
Keaton St. James is an American graduate student studying science who loves to write poetry and prose in his spare time. He has also been published in The Wellington Street Review.
