ANGEL CINDERS

Angels came crashing down. Crashing down like momentary flutters, like eyelashes stuck in a mascara pool. Angels were never fit for heaven, they were never fit for purpose, so they set fire to themselves, one by individual one, and streaked across the sky, burning tails and wings, webbed feet and pokey hands. With eyes of burning coals and hearts in deep slumber, they burnt and crashed, the moist earth accepting them with a fizzle and a sigh. "Ain't no sight for human eyes" someone muttered, "Ain't no sight for human eyes." But they dragged the lake, raked through the trees, pulled together the cinders of angels, the coals of heaven, the broken black smudge of the gods. "Angel cinders. Must be good for something" they chanted as they worked. Angels are tiny people, hooked wings and webbed feet. They burn easy, they burn fast. You take care now!