(for W. Gregory Stewart)
Of course you want to smash them. So did I
when my hand, independent of my will,
splattered them all around you, the sick spawn
of something not my own imagination,
babies with wings. Like you, I wished them gone
in words I now hold unrepeatable:
I begged wings of my own, that I might fly
to where such images could never be.
But then they spoke to me, and, in elation,
I understood at last: this wasn’t how
they’d always look, but just their larval stage.
Give them, at most, another century,
and they’ll be full-grown agents of God’s rage,
world-rending kerubhim. Feel better now?
(First appeared in Star*Line, May-June 1987.)