Tree Story #12: They Speak of Angels
They speak of angels in Italy when it is warm and the sun fills the shade with dreams of death and birth.
Those who speak
They themselves dream of dying
Eyes open seeing nothing
This is when, later, they told me of this village
This is what I was told
There is a village south of here
Angels would be seen
At odd hours in between things
Peering into the crevices inside our lives
Once, one angel
I do not know why
I like these stories
It could be because of the strange tongue
And my weakness in translating
It could be of the strange taste of the story and my weakness in listening
It could be the heat in the shade of a dusty tree
But once, an angel appeared
This happened so long ago
It was when people didn’t matter
There was a policeman
And another man
Not a criminal
Just different
When torment was sport
And see, I know this story
I know that there will be pain
And I don’t want to say I don’t care
I don’t want to say I’ve heard it before
I don’t want to interrupt
I don’t want to say this is my story
The angel appeared in the tree
I missed the subtlety
I thought up in the tree
I thought that the angel appeared up in the tree
I didn’t understand that
The angel appeared in the tree
The light slanting through the leaves illuminated the angels face
And the man
Pointed to the tree and asked the policeman to see the angel
The light shifted and the irregularity
A tumor, a growth, a blemish of nature
No longer looked like anything
Especially an angel
The policeman lost his temper
His plaything was mocking him
The man, as it is said, resisted arrest
But when the light is just right
You can see the angel still.
JF
