i mistook a thump in the basement
for the washing machine on its 
last spin cycle. iPhone flashlight out,
i crept down the wooden stairs 
to find St. Gabriel & St. Michael
sitting on the cool cement floor.
they were so bright, all over, 
skin made of neon, only,
less harsh & more like honey.
their hands were full of feathers,
move dropping from their wings.
michael, with their arms cradling
feathers, a dying child,
i brought them trash bags to
clean the plumage up & 
glasses of water because i did not
know what angels drink.
they poured the water on each 
other, kissed necks,
caressed faces. came around me,
pressed lips to my forehead.
bodies the texture of stone.
i invited them upstairs but they
declined, scared of walking earth
where god could see them.
it should be a well-known fact
that all angles are queer & 
god was fed up with it. 
with all the women leaving
there's only so much a man
can take. 
now each day when i wake up
& when i go to bed 
i bring them two glasses
of water. they crawl into
the washing machine & pray