The Angel of Farewell
by Bernardo Wade听
听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 after John Keene
听 听 听 I wake to winter鈥檚 reply鈥�
in mid gait, the snow, as it falls, shapes
听 听 听 this silence & 滨鈥檓 afraid,
again, of today. The angel grinds her teeth
听 听 听 on empty bottles,
covering the dead grass, shimmering
听 听 听 the earth with what
I can鈥檛 say: we were young & newly naked,
听 听 听 mangled in precarity,
that Paris room reeked of love鈥攍ike spring
听 听 听 dew, so I wrote a poem
about the eagerness of May鈥攁n elegy for naivety,
听 听 听 now tucked away.
Remember? I used words like, perfect & fate.
听 听 听 Yet, it鈥檚 here, I lie
next to you, tracing the words, 滨鈥檓 sorry
听 听 听 over your lips,
listening to a stack of plates tremble
听 听 听 inside your breath.
Each morning, the sun rises in my mistakes.
Once deemed鈥攊n my head鈥攁 breakup-that-hasn't-happened-yet poem, most of these words seemed to come, not from the reality of my inter-personal relations, but from a weariness I felt as I awoke one winter morning in southern Indiana. Outside of my accustomed habitation, New Orleans, I get cold feet, so to speak. The snow seems to remind me how the cyclical nature of things can feel, at times, cruel. How there is the capital D, Death, yet we experience all these lowercase deaths as our minds, bodies, and spirits pass through their own constellations of seasons. Simply put, the grey mid-western winters had me in a dreary fatalistic mood and I thought, ok let's follow this feeling.
A Black writer from New Orleans, tries at poems and rides听his bike around Bloomington, Indiana, because Indiana University funds his听present period of studying with others. He currently serves as the editor-in-chief听of Indiana Review, is a Watering Hole Fellow, and is infatuated with Ed Roberson鈥檚听question, 鈥淐an you O.D. on life?鈥� He was recently awarded the 2021 Puerto del Sol听Poetry Prize and has words in or forthcoming in Crazyhorse, Black Warrior Review,听Southern Review, Guernica, The Cincinnati Review, and others.