by Megan Denton Ray
I was nine when the angels visited. My mother was there,
sleeping with the TV on, in the bed from Havertys—
the one with the tall posts carved like pineapples.
My father was there beside her, brooding—lonely
as a severed thumb. My mother was recovering. No,
relapsing. She was panting underwater, fumbling
her bone barrettes. My father only wanted a bed made
of cherrywood. And he never forgave me for the time
I swung, wildly in my pajamas, around one of the posts
until I heard it snap. That was the night the angels visited.
Suddenly, a light through my bedroom window, there
at the Trouble House—not a street light or the moon.
It was wide and warm, a great white whoosh of a thing.
I felt my cheeks go pink, red ribbons around my wrists.
I saw myself as a shining lady, all emeralds and pulp.
I saw my mother crying after my father pawned
her ruby rings. I saw all my treasures: rose quartz, bees,
broken glass. I used to carry them in a Crown Royal bag.
We were a Crown Royal family—rich in purple and gold.
And God was there. He was. He parked his great sedan
right in front of the Trouble House. He beeped his horn,
and I came running wildly, in my pajamas.
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