Riding an Angel

Edward Stanford

Purple.

Purple sky
with pinpoints of orange
dotted throughout.
Like a leaky balloon
stretched over my face
as I look through for the sun.
Never before have I been greeted
with a more graceful night.

A glass Angel came by not five minutes ago.
Said we were going for a ride.
I agreed.
A thousand feet up
and all I can do is compare it
with the feet of a thousand chasing me below.
I grab the Angel’s wings
and twist my hands like he’s a motorcycle.

Cold.

You can’t fly comes from below.
I want to fly.

Half an hour later, half the group remains.

They’re right, I conclude.
This isn’t logical
and the Angel’s left arm falls
and smashes one of the runners.
I grab his wings and revv him again.
My hands have glass in them.
His legs fall off
and dig into the ground
like a flicked knife.
I fall.

Orange.

Orange sky with pinpoints of purple
dotted throughout. Never before have
I been greeted with a more graceful morning.