Faux Angel

If I cry for the dead, my body loses
its heat, its water, its salt. Like snow
heaped deeper on the sloped walkway, I lie
impossibly white, impossibly cold & quiet.

How does the door swing open when
we're not looking? Whose heart claws
its way through ice and tiny, bow-shaped
bones driven by love, destroyed by love,
the manner in which it leaves them.

See the boy, his winter coat, his blue
wool gloves, lying down at the end
of his small bootprints to make the faux
impression of a fallen, flapping angel
whose giant wings have trapped him.

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