by Helen Losse
I want to eat ambrosia,
dine with the gods. Dance.
Seraphim at the gate, velvet-winged.
“A plea is not a call,“ says the tallest angel.
“One should not taste of success too soon.“
“Yes. Wait’s a word to ride the wind,“
says another. “And who will know the
mind of God?“
A celestial chorus in a quick response.
And I, reaching upward, raise uplifted palms.
A spurt of boldness: Each-in its own way.
The voices fade, and things I reach for seem too far.
Then just as silence slices through morning,
heaven’s jagged edge cuts my finger to the bone.
