previously published in Dajerfield
They are terrible with their unused teeth, sharp and small like a child’s, and their new skin. Their navel-less bellies.
Of halos I am uncertain. Perhaps they shimmer in their magnitude, but this myth of wings is ridiculous and unnecessary. They are light enough to be carried on the least of things, being merely the breath of God, made in His mouth and emerging from His lips thin and improbable.
When we meet them in our trailers and used bookstores they bring only proof of our neglect. They make evident our unclean teeth, our petty shifting, the horrible movements of our tongues.
They are full and we are not. They give no place to enter. The force of their voice is such as to not admit another tongue in their mouths. Their other lips when parted lead nowhere.