We fail when we're literal:
blisters on the pavement,
pockets trapped
in ice, in glass,
in suspension.
Even our grieving is polite,
only a suggestion, until we thaw.
No one is an angel; no one joins
other angels, wrapped in hope,
glowing bandages.
We are all afraid, we have regrets,
and we lie until blisters form,
surrounded by blood, our denial of ego.
When she asked if I believed in God,
I thought better than to answer.
Answers do not matter.
We fail when we're literal.
I am careful to avoid breaking skin,
because even flesh is more certain
than the stillness of winter,
the layers of ice protecting no one,
reinforcing nothing
except suspension.