Clara Bow Grounded

I have a cracked angel that looks down on my desk

From the corner of the window brace

The cracks have made her a bit of a mess

But they have missed her face

Going through her wings

And hands like lace

Her expression stings

As she looks up in exaggerated exasperation

I think that is why I’ve kept her

Her clear struggle in Heavenly realms or disdain

She hunches slightly in a blue faded gown

And a red kind of sweat-band graces her brow

Her hands rest in the prayer fold

Under her chin

She looks like she is tired of being told

And her patience is wearing thin

She is more of a faded movie star

From a silent picture

Her hopes screwed tightly in a jar

She will not give a lecture

Weeds are at her feet

Clouds are in her sky

If only she could speak

She would utter why, why, why, why

Her questions lead me to cry with her

Some days inside, I too die

Some days I hope of much better

The why does not scare or scar us

We do not fuss

We stand and fume

Breathing in the perfume

A God given scent

An angel’s natural musk