by Joshua Gage

The angels arrive to roll back the stone of your sins,
to peel away all that is human until you open
like a psalter to anything in want of shelter.
They test you, probes of divine light
after the promise of nectar and a scent
that would stir even God to dancing.
Their fingers are slow but the skin is patient
and pulls back to a constellated sky
swollen on holy water turned red with desire.
A mouth forms at the seams of your flesh
and the arterial tongue strains to whisper
a prayer of soft and fragrant asylum.

Joshua Gage is an ornery curmudgeon from Cleveland. His newest chapbook, blips on a screen, is available on Cuttlefish Books. He is a graduate of the Low Residency MFA Program in Creative Writing at Naropa University. He has a penchant for Pendleton shirts, Ethiopian coffee, and any poem strong enough to yank the breath out of his lungs.