Nexus

The day I decided I was done with forgiveness was the day
the sun shined into my window,
and an angel told me not to worry,
that my enemies drank poisoned wine in the night.

The day I decided that I was done
with being seen and not heard
was the day that my hair caught on fire
and a prophet said it spoke to him and told him
not to enter the same kingdom as I entered,
not to face the same sky from whence I fell.

The wine was simple and sweet, like the temperament
of a certain child, before the nest in her hair sparked,
and the birds flew from it, frightened,
their feathers glowing red.

That was the day I was done,
because the nexus was broken.
Each bully dropped his glass, betrayed.
The god, the angels they knew
were simple and sweet, not wrathful,
and yet, here, they collapse,
killed by an unnamed moon, a child of Saturn,
a messenger, a follower of god.
At least, this is the fantasy.
This is the string of kerchiefs, emerging from the hat.
On this day, illusions and reality are the same,
and the only thing separating them, coloring them
just a little differently, is belief.