gill cutter

youngest angels 
spend their days cutting 
gills into fish.
tally marks. they laugh in the water.
ocean. lake. grotto. 
one says to another,
"what if we were humans."
the others look dreamily 
at the blood forest & all
the dripping electricity. the video games
they could use for worship.
angels are older than gods.
they were the first beings to look
at a stone & think, "that could breathe."
fires lit beneath the fresh mozzarella moon.
so, together, they pretend
to be us. to be people.
one is a mother & one is a father.
one is a daughter who brushes
her long hair. another is a boy
shaving his head for war. 
these games delight the angels.
fish wriggle & dart between their legs.
"if we were humans we would 
get married right now," one says
to another. killing a fish
with their bare hands 
they fasten a ring from bone. 
in a circle they invent human promises.
"i will mow your lawn." 
"i will eat your chicken." "i will
garden your golden."
laughing they kiss one another
with every mouth they have.  
the pocket mouth & the silver mouth
& the eden mouth. the fish
waiting to be fish get impatient
writhing as smooth stones.
"fine, fine," an angel says,
calling their games to a close
& drawing their knife again
to continue the work of conjuring 
fresh spirits for the water.