Exangel

by Kirsten Rian.

 

The first word spoken on the moon was okay

I’ve begun quoting you, that’s the language—now

The first telegraph message tapped by Samuel Morse, what hath God wrought?

The first words spoken over the telephone by Alexander Bell, Watson, please come here. I want you

The first words spoken by Thomas Edison over the phonograph, Mary had a little lamb

Air where the music hangs

Feast on in-between

Theology of lace is in the spaces

And this is how we speak—now

I need to gather my things. I am gathering my—

Recalcitrant dogwood blossoms

Did I tell you it’s already April? The only euphony is after-thought

By the way, last week our daughter got her period for the first time. And yesterday I leaned over in the car to kiss her goodbye. She bobbed her head like a sand swallow and kissed the air around my cheek so not to smear her lip gloss. I reached for her hand, she hovered hers atop my palm so not to mess the nail polish she had just applied sitting in the passenger seat while I drove her to school

It was all air. It’s always all air. The kind to fly through. To get somewhere. Somewhere warm.

 

 

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