angel of death

if death had a face it would be 
a manhole cover. we want
to take the bones out of our flesh
& build little dog houses.
i walk my fears on a leash
& they bark at idols. i no longer
believe in safety but i do not know
what that leaves me with. 
when i was small 
& first heard the story of moses &
of the angel of death,
i was obsessed with warding
off the plagues. i obsessed over
what we might put on our door
to keep everyone alive through the night. 
i pictured the angel of death would look 
like a deep-sea animal, ripped 
from the dark. eyes like 
wild glowing thumbs. i would
mark the screen door with dandelion guts
& rusted nails from the yard.
each morning, my father would
remove them, unsure of who 
had been doing witchcraft 
at our threshold. these days, i have
sympathy for the creatures we make
to house our grief. i do not think
anyone slept that night
of the angel of death. i do not think
all the blood worked. i have
more & more conversations about
what should & should not be spoken
or written in the presence of
a cellphone. everywhere, the listening
thickens until there are hallways
of doors to try to seal. the angel,
a terrible ghost, lingers at each one. 
there is a part of me who has
given many futures up. there is the other
knocking on doors & telling them
"the ghost we made is coming."