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Broken Wings

E.B. Bradley

Lately I’ve been having this dream
I’m in a rundown apartment that is not my own
The apartment has a mattress on the floor
And empty bottles of booze and packs of cigarettes
Nothing unusual about the squalor
Except the angel
He stands over six feet tall,
perfect,
godlike.
Shirtless, revealing a body models would sell their souls for.
But in my dream
I notice all this in a passing glance
My focus is consumed by his wings
Mangled and broken
Like a songbird hit by a car
Although we never speak, I know that it’s his wings
that have brought him out of heaven
And down to this dump
We sit in sclence, the angel and I
We drink and we smoke
We play metal music so loud our ears bleed
We smash bottles on the ground and punch holes in the walls
Once he threw a chair out the window
We scream at the injustice of it all
And carve nameless symbols into our own flesh with broken glass
When I wake in the mornings, I feel a deep calm.
Couldn’t tell you why.

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