by Virginia Bell.
sits on the dash in the dust
like a fallen angel
like a mother
I keep it there
thin slip of balsa, the ballast
of two paper wings
faded, folded just so
the tail as if wicked
from a butterfly
you made it
for a boy who was not of your body
as if you were a father
farther, through the windshield
I’m looking for a little library
in someone’s yard so that I can pull over
discard books I found
in my crowded cases
by someone I don’t like
I’m no angel
I want to tell you
(and not your mother
I tell myself)
what is an angel
but an angle
from which we make crude
judgments