Intention

by Abe Louise Young


My heart hammers in its medieval flood plain.
An angel is helix made flesh and so I’m restless,
wind billowing wool between my legs.
I remember that my face was cupped and my curls were coiled
by an unknown artist, calloused hands turned me
out of linden with chisel and gouge. Angels are without
pride, without kin, without pronouns or possessions, but
I hold a twisted column and will never let it go.
Is it a lever to keep God from having a seizure?
This tree limb in my hands is just the visible story.
I’m hung on a white wall for all perpetuity but
with three more branches could rough out a room
with a dirt floor and in would crawl a refugee mother
to nurse her baby in safety. Sew an old torn glove
of a cloud overhead to hide the moon’s belly.
See, I am just one among many witnesses
sworn to stillness, attending scenes, staring impassively,
yet I still have a comment on life. If granted permission,
I would gently lift the struggle from any animal’s back.

Published first in The Map of Every Lilac Leaf