We don’t allow gods in our house,
but maybe we should. The angle
of light is correct. The shadows
cast by the larch absorb
excess heat. An angel seated
on a bough regards us with pity.
Yet our tiny house lacks room
for the alpha god most people
hire to stir their soup and souls.
We could hire a dumpster to fill
with heaps of books to make room
for a mermaid sort of creature
that could sleep in the basement
wrapped in a damp sheet. For some,
maybe for us, this is god
or goddess enough to encourage
our kindly if mournful instincts.
But would caring for such a creature
endear us to the universe?
This is the day’s great problem,
casting scrap iron in the streets
and inciting wounded people
to argue weak propositions.
The angel in the larch is silent,
offering neither admonition
nor advice. Ask it in for lunch.
This would be a small step toward
a more spiritual experience
we could deposit in our account.
Angels don’t take up any space
and they only eat angel food,
of which we have a pantry full.
The morning feels soggy after
a night of rain-colored rain.
The birdsong is tenuous and wan,
the daffodils droop on their stems,
but the angel looks crisply ironed
and a credit to its species.
Announcing the winners and shortlists for the Lucent Dreaming 2022 Prize. Congratulations all!