by Joshua Gage
Everything grows tight and cold again
and winds moan throaty cello tones through clouds.
I have grown disconsolate this hour,
its seven sorrows scorched across my skin.
There’s no better time to be an angel
dispatched in wing-raged armor to obscure the sun.
They descend in a crescendo of novenas
that thunder up my legs and through my chest.
From the stampede of my heart, seven notes
to chase the sorrows free, each exhale
a haloed wind to pluck their smoke away.
© 2022 Joshua Gage All rights reserved.