Parousia

A. I. Christensen


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She says she was eating or opening a window or just walking

dully along, and always had been, but tonight there might be

few angels. These things. Our dog

wagging across the foreground, the porch

that still needs fixing and has since we moved, the wind

scraping along the ice. The honest shepherds

(let them sing their morally easy life). Each sudden

tree lining the road, long leaves and aspens, fir and blue spruce

and the on-edge bushes. The purling road itself

where wheel lift tow trucks pull onto the hallowed ground of another’s suffering

with that thick steel cross leaned against the bed. The mistakes breaking

us toward these three libraries we’ve never been and the books

on the shelves of all libraries. The hospital

was growing in my sight for eight short months; winter sits in; the kings

and pawns show up, each relative and each relative’s relative

and Emerson and the condescending snow and so many blue things. And just now,

feeling the need for it, I walk out

to get air and look at the lights in the lot,

and the ignorant stars must have seen it too.