Biting Off her Own Wing
the Angel succumbs
to the flightless endurance
of separation,
leaving behind
not only all the old games
and fancies
but also the so many
wonderful delicious
pantomimes of religion and war.
Marauding mobs of so-calleds
spit language and decoration
and devise assaulting rituals
to practice on the psyches of peers
who do not fly the same direction,
while they themselves
deteriorate in closet self-admonishment.
Feathers still stuck to her lips,
the Angel coughs and spews
the beauty and terror
of her own power
and finds embedded in her own soul
the rhythm and rush
of wings incarnate
still beating
© Doreen Shababy 2017