These Can't Be Real Angels

By Willam Doreski

Downtown the friendly river
that used to empower mills
writhes in its tough black segments
with a fringe of ice trembling.

I’d like to sit at the picnic bench
and enjoy the absolute cold
three days before Christmas but
four angels with folded wings

are sharing an ephemeral lunch.
They chat in silvery altos
that belong to no single gender.
They look up as I approach and smile

the smile they save for the faithless.
These can’t be real angels but people
costumed for a local pageant.
Yet I can see through their bulk—

their bodies free of evolution
with its mess of busy organs.
I’m going to wait and watch until
they fly off to upper regions.

The day ticks past. The river snores
as the early dark descends on us.
Suddenly the angels melt away
as if wholly composed of light.

I sit at the bench they occupied
and let the dark crawl over me
with its insect feelers tingling,
distinguishing spirit from self.

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William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.