Meditations on the Angel by Meghan Privitello

When you can shoot the messenger and the messenger bleeds light. What a privileged execution.

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The hierarchy of pain starts and ends with the body. If the body can believe in ascending towards some impossible sky, it can mutate pain out of the flesh and into a memory of smoke.

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Heaven is a privileged institution. All destinies are etched in metal. Your death is a handing over of your life’s currency. Poor death. Poor, poor death.

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God dawdled with stringed instruments as an artistic form of suicide. Try not to say goodbye when the harp effervesces, try not to slit your wrists when the cello boards its own tremulous train. No angel will save you from this. They are too busy with their own music: filling caskets with bees and calling it a piano.

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Worship is a story about forgetting. How easy to adore a man when you abandon the idea of his body and its embedded tasks.

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To love a stranger is a perilous blindness. Unable to read the history of their hands, you must read your own wish for goodness as braille. Those pustules of hope are always bursting. There is not enough room in any afterworld for everyone to be holy.

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A life without free will is the greatest relief. I do not want this meat, yet I eat it. My legs are too tired to run, yet they run. What beautiful machines we are. What lemmings walking toward water without any hope we won’t drown.

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Even God is an incurable disease. Even in paradise there are spiders.

 

 

 

Meghan Privitello is the author of A New Language for Falling Out of Love (YesYes Books, 2015) and Notes on the End of be World, winner of the Black River Chapbook Contest (Black Lawrence Press, 2016). Poems have appeared in Boston Review, Guernica, Kenyon Review Online, A Public Space, Best New Poets, Please Excuse This Poem: 100 New Poets for the Next Generation, & elsewhere. She is the recipient of a NJ State Council of the Arts Fellowship in Poetry.