In the face of angels

Love, your name is always on the tips of our tongues these 
days like table salt or peach pits forced behind cheeks. 

You know, it's only gotten worse since my mother cannot 
stop saying your name like a quiet miracle or a war our country 

lost or the sharp juice of starfruit mulling in her mouth. 
The biblical gasp about your name, the quiet of a seam sewn shut. 

Before dinner you rise like a body from a lake, your name nosing 
for warmth in small dead place, the crook of my arm. All these years 

and I do not know the colour your eyes turn underwater... 
and I say "yes, mum" but in my her eyes my reflection as if just shaved, 

eyes reddened and skin raw. I say, before she can say "I remember", "yes 
she was just like that - I cannot change that. I remember." my Love I swallow, 

my hands everyday replacing yours at the table. Love, last night I dreamt 
of angels, their wings all wet and pink like new-hatched chicks or a 
still-birth but did not stay long enough to witness the outcome. 

© A.T. 2020