Trans Angel at the Coffee Shop on Press St. – Taylor Triplett

I saw a seraph sitting outside the coffee shop
drinking a latte with a double shot
eyes like busted headlights,
wings of baby’s breath and barbed wire.
He was Facetiming his lover
telling him about the blood between his thighs
and picking at the mothballs on his sweater.
His face the picture of crucifixion,
his lover said, all static and certainty,
baby I will take all of your blood
and the angel said do this in remembrance
I, too, burned down the Eden for something brighter
I, too, have spit in the face of biology
I, too, have made a home of the busted knuckles
and locked barn of boyhood, the blood
marbling the hay. The seraph saw me lurking,
looked up and smiled with lion’s teeth.
We admired each other’s untrusting eyes,
our small hands, our raw throats. We knew
we had bodies others would like to see
buried in the mud behind the creek.
And we smiled, knowing
these busted compass bodies,
were the closest man could get to miracle.