Bruce Isaacson

The Eleventh Angel of Everywhere

Today, in the eleventh poem of the fourth month of the eighth year of the seventh decade of my own everlasting book of life, today there is rain on the street that splashed its way into the holes of the soles of the sneakers on the socks of white cotton that became soaked. A reminder to get new shoes. My daughter will be home later, see the new shoes and little gold chain I bought her & I hope for a moment feel beautiful and forget about her problems which I can’t much help. Some say a poet shouldn’t worry about canards such as the wet feet of the dry heart of the drained bank account of the lonely thoughts of a man who’s in love with the poems of Lenore Kandel. We can’t forget how it feels when first they slaughter the angels— fresh-faced, full of life, rougy-cheeked, just to see them was to feel the worth of the world, even when they bled it was beautiful. Unforgettable. And sad. Like Judas thinking his deed would start revolution everywhere. Or like starlight from millions of years ago reaching us: one twinkles then 11 million years away at just the right time, another goes dwarf and the red light reaches earth so I see them together. Millions of years apart but happening here all at once. Isolate angels of the universe, arriving same time as ten others. All the people I know are in pain. Pain everywhere. Andy will maybe die. Neeli maybe has and I just haven’t been told. Then today, a hummingbird landed on a leaf by my window. He stopped to look at me. He was deep oily green with phosphorescent blue flecks. An angel. He was perfect, then he was gone. 

—Bruce Isaacson