Previously published in NOON
They are terrible with their unused teeth. Sharp, small like a child’s. Their new skin, navelless bellies.
Of halos I am uncertain. Perhaps they shimmer in their magnitude, but the idea of wings is ridiculous and unnecessary. They are light enough to be carried on the least of things. Merely the breath of God, 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 lips when parted lead nowhere.
