We used to talk around angels at the café;
they drank cinnamon lattes and raspberry mochas,
whipped cream would drip onto their hands and they’d laugh
so surprised as if it didn’t happen every time.
They always went on Tuesdays or that’s the only time
we ever saw them, at least, and I thought it was because Tuesdays
got you double punches on your drink card, but you thought it
was because angels are Tuesday kind of people.
One once brushed her wings across my arms as she was going to her seat,
it felt the same as the wings of the chickens that my parents used
to raise and who would always run away from us because they
didn’t remember that we were the ones who wouldn’t hurt them, and she didn’t even
say excuse me. I always thought angels would be polite but, maybe, she
didn’t notice. Maybe angels can’t feel what their wings caress.
One Tuesday, they never showed up, and we didn’t know
quite what to do. It’s not like we knew them but we expected their presence,
they were like the tick of a wall clock that makes a house sound extra silent
when it stops keeping time. We still drank our coffees but the air felt
different; eventually we stopped going to that café.
We found another one that wasn’t so far away; on Wednesdays
the place would fill up with sirens who’d drink Italian ices while
combing out their hair. They sometimes asked us to play cards
with them and so we did.