Angel song

I am young enough to believe that nothing can change me,
That cathedrals burn and
beckon beneath themselves, a hallowed weight of
catastrophe -
I am young enough to believe that
swords can’t sharpen at the bottom of a belly ridden
with years of saying yes -
that two people beside themselves can
smile up at a lace covered sky, a storm so bright
we could hardly believe there was ever a child screeching
out for their god, wondering why one never came?
And there’s a shoe left abandoned, beside the walkway.
Yet still, no angels sing.
I am old enough to remember how it feels to kneel beside
a father “Do you know who I am Dad?”
And praying it feels abnormal to him, wondering how long
it’ll take to launch the grenade head first into
a moonlit night – open wounded and blistering.
Old enough to understand that love doesn’t stem from leaving,
from green bottles washed with sand,
depicting years I have had no thought of loving.
From people, who in their own ways, needed saving.
Yet still, no angels sing.
To be a women whose tongue sharpens as it speaks is
something my father could never teach in that same
way he taught salvation through the shudder
between some over women’s thighs,
(I am damn right done with these lies)
To struggle forward into debris -
I’d be lying if I said you meant nothing to me.
Yet Finally….
The angels start singing.