Photo credits: odileva @flickr https://flickr.com/photos/odileva/
Photo Credit: Graham Cook @flickr https://flickr.com/photos/140516579@N03/
I think God lives in a bakery.
He must.
And every night, he cuts off a little piece from his littlest finger and juices the littlest drop from his heart.
And every night, he swoops into the church at dawn leaving feathers and scales everywhere
and maybe downy bird feathers and plumes too, he has it all.
Sometimes his horns scrape the under of the altar when he leaves his little bread bits next to the God juice.
I can see angels. I close my eyes and look at the sky.
I look at the sky through my criss-crossed closed-nearly-open-eyes.
Not everyone can do this.
They are open and they are closed.
They are halfway open and all the way closed.
I can see angels through my lids. But my eyelashes hurt.
I see them float above me. Breathing wind into my face.
They smell like dirt and fish and rot and smoky fires.
The fires taata said bantu burn with green boughs and dry leaves.
They hang there and ask me if I am good. Have I been good for mama?
I lie and say yes. I lie even though I was there when Namalwa broke her leg.
I was there and I laughed.
I stood there and laughed and laughed even after I knew she was hurt.
They know I have lied and disappear.
I try to draw the angels but all I see is my brother drowning.
He is floating right under the water, his hair floating behind him and he looks suspended in air,
he is floating.
he is a floating angel and he is dead.
He is here and he is dead and he is an angel.