Elena Sichrovsky
An Angel Dies and You Go Get Drunk
an angel dies and you go get drunk
for the first time, baba ghanoush and pita bread
served between apple-scented shisha smoke
you taste the ash of wings
in every laughter-perforated exhale
bells ring, heaven sings, heaven in harmonies
around the naked waist of a beautiful girl
dancing around the table, belly curling
to rhythms of hands clapping
put your palms together again and again
open and shut air escaping last
breaths do angels even need to breathe
you ask your friend to pass the chicken kebabs
the bamboo toothpick stabs through your fingers
a spear through jesus’ side you wonder if god sent him
to die for all his children those in heaven included
do angels just go home when they die
do they go outside of the walls
do they dissipate the way
we wish our own ashes would when we toss them off
cliffs and into seas and make crooked wishes on wind
after your third vodka shot you glimpse an angelic
skeleton in the cracks of the bathroom mirror
black sockets for eyes
black eyeliner on the dancing girl
black fingernails in faux fur putting
her coat on, still dancing, purring, fingertips, caressing
your friend’s lips and you think how no one kissed
the dead angel’s brow the way a judas might’ve
you ask the waiter for another shot, he looks at you
funny like you didn’t just explain to him that angels
shouldn’t have to sneak back into the pearly gates
saint peter shouldn’t have to ask them if they’ve done well
how could an angel do wrong
but then that halo had been burning since day one
the floor spun away from you when you tried to descend
the earth hated how ashamed you made it feel of its dirt
so it smothered you, jealous little bitch
it didn’t cover you well enough I saw feathers
sticking up in my backyard and the weeds separated to let
you through, resurrection isn’t just for your half-brother
vodka fingers you to the back of your throat
strangling the answer to your friend’s question why
are you drinking tonight why this night, you tell him
the one who casts the curse may break it
broken glass winks back at you the waiter sweeps parts
of you into the dustpan and you fight to get them back
you didn’t fight enough the first time you died
now that it’s the third time I doubt that
you can be happy again
Matthew 23:27
tell me stories about the time your skirt got caught
in a bicycle chain, how you divorced the black grease
from the hem when you washed it in the sink
tell me stories about the gum that followed you
home on the breast of white sneakers you bought
online, it stretched in a scream before you scraped it off
tell me stories about the family of hairs lingering
on the piece of wax pulled from your lips, four
strands holding hands even after you crumpled it
tell me stories about the half slice of green
pepper escaping from the trash bag, sliding
into a ballet solo before you snatched it back
tell me stories about the ants that chased
each other down the toilet seat, ignorant to the squirm
of your leg, too enamored to gasp when being squished
tell me stories about the outdated post-it note
the pajama shirt with too many holes
the phone charger forgotten at the club
the comb missing half its teeth
all those aborted lives
tell me stories about the sins you don’t
remember the weight of, confessions
strangled in your rib cage, blood
tattooed into the veins of your palms
you whitewashed sepulchre