i attempt growing feathers

i was not trying to be an angel.
quite the opposite, i wanted to be
a vulture. i wanted to crouch over
carrion & ferry them to the blue place.
instead, i noticed a sharp light.
i woke you up early but the sun
could not hold us. the frying pan 
sang all night. i hope you remember
what it was like those first two weeks.
sometimes i think knowing someone 
is always an orbit. only, i succeed
in only every getting farther away.
eggs hidden in the sacristy. your voice
on a downward volume until 
our beaks were moving with no sound.
when i was really little i thought 
that angels were just dead people
but that is so so wrong. angels are
living people with no where to put
all their eyes. people who could not
manage to become a hawk or an eagle.
i would have settled for a drake. 
instead, here i am with prophecies
to deliver. i shirk my job. i call you 
instead  & make up something beautiful.
you tell me that i remind you 
of a hole in the wall you used to love.
i do not ask if you mean a literal hole
or a run-down restaurant. i prefer 
to imagine you meant a literal hole
maybe harboring rusted razor blades
in an old house. the evidence of our love
is in the bay. my left shoe. my feathers,
always molting. i am not good at 
surviving change. i hold funerals.
for me. for you. for anyone who will
give me flowers. who will lay still
long enough to be mummified.
can you go from angel to screech owl?
i hope so. i want to sit on a branch 
near your window & scream.