Emily Kirchner

I saw a sunlight halo over a dumpster in an alley
and wondered,
what do angels throw away?
Unsanctified habits?
Misplaced disgraces?
Self destructive ideas that dim their halos
like light bulbs that need to be changed?

I’ve dumpster dived through bad habits.
When it feels like the angels have thrown me away,
maybe I’m just being recycled;
a metamorphosis metaphor.

I’m not an angel,
just a moth praying to the moon
Chasing impious perfection.

We become good through effort,
resisting the landfill’s lure.
I can’t relate to an ethically ethereal ball of light
who has feathers, but doesn’t molt
Who flies above the earth
so its feet are never dirty.

I believe in less angelic guardians:
Angels with track mark scars, arrest records and STDs.
Their wings are clipped by circumstance,
but they still fly.

Sometimes they look like pigeons:
Messy,
and wildly in love with the things we discard.

They write stories with their own plucked quills
and earn every feather on their wings.