Raina J. León

Mary Magdalene Virgin Mother Mary, Sister of Martha

I. I borrow wings from other angels, coast the streets to find feathers loosely attached to slender silver ties. With care, I close the catch and fasten cardboard stiffened form so close I cannot breathe or fly for the air pushed out into a world in masquerade. I am African. I am goddess with flare sounding the trumpets. I call out God. Meaning changes like sea water in storm. I part the crowds until, beaten, my wings fly, fall, litter the streets. I cradle the newborn twins and realize that I am fallen, a lesser angel, wingless and depressed. I am seductress unpetaled, undressed. II. dress her navel in lotus flowers to swim in the pool of her abdomen twine orange blossoms in her hair and smell the scent of oils and natural perfume kiss her nipples so that they become pyramids wet from a summer rain of tongue press her down into soft linens with hard body folding into hers like tributary waters warm her hands against heated chest that covers drum rhythms resounding men, worship your women this way women, flush at the adoration and you will know how I feel when he touches my hand

Mahogany maple syrup runs in spider web lines. My father never uses the stuff, he eats pancakes, powdered, butter moist. When I was a child, he knew more of straightness. Lines and razors were friends. One night he tried to die by his hand. A girl jumped before he walked to the ledge. Her mangled body wore the rails like a girdle, her limbs so thin they became a blood putty. Angel, her name. They had to lift the train to take her out.