Flutiebear: Rambling My Way Through Thedas

I went to church
and listened for the sound of angels:
I heard life instead.
Tambourines sang of
grace and praise and hellfire
as sweat slid down my temple.
Fine silks and poplin rustled,
metronomes for my hitching breath.
I clapped, palms cupping empty air, and
uttered a low and choked amen,
no louder than the whisper of feathers.

I went to a hospital
and listened for the sound of angels:
I heard life instead.
Beeping and whirring and chirping—
such a jolly psalm for hearts dismantled;
and in between
a susurrated prayer
against cracked lips, the twitch
of green, bloated fingers against over-starched linens,
the laugh of a dying woman as she dreamt.
I did not add my voice to hers. Some songs
are meant to be solos.

I went to a graveyard
and listened for the sound of angels:
I heard life instead.
Frogs and crickets chirruped a zydeco
as the wet and hungry earth
slurped at my shoes. Creaking branches
gossiped about this new arrival,
how handsome he was, how strong
and eager, even if
he was just passing through.
I stayed for hours. But no heavenly chorus,
no revelation was here to be found.

I looked in the mirror
and listened to my own heartbeat:
violent, ferocious
a cataclysm that shuddered my whole body
with each strike. And
finally I heard
the flapping of wings.