Arguing With Angels

Even as the sun opens the sky
to the brightest April blue
and brings light and warmth
to my winter weary bones,
I am arguing with angels
about happiness.

There are limits to everything it seems—
boundaries I never knew existed
in order to keep control
on laughter as it burns the ribs
and stretches each of a thousand muscles
of a face
or controlling hunger for garlic and oil
slathered over Turkish dumplings
with yogurt to smooth the edges of bitterness
and ancient rituals involving grapes and walnuts,
the earth herself added to the syrup at the end of cooking
for sweetness.

The creatures from heaven warn me
not to move too close to the edge of this love,
to stay back under cover
where I can protect myself,
hide from the truth that buzzes
like a mouth full of angry bees.

Ignore the pull of a wide-open heart
lest you drown in the rapid current
roaring on these banks like a locomotive
racing across the prairie in winter, no crossings
to stop the speeding iron force at midnight
under a crescent moon
and millions of burning stars.

Even with the counsel of these winged ones
I cannot help but tempt this fate.
Their fear will not dissuade me
from walking across the invisible lines
drawn as protective charms
against the unbearable burden
of too much love.


Even if I must drain every drop of blood from my veins
and fill these vessels with emptiness,
I will climb over this mystic mountain
of everything forbidden
to gaze into the face of God.