No one knows what to do with the girl
who wrestles the angel every night.
They try to pry her away
from such violent impropriety,
as if it would be better for her
not to go on holding him,
with her fingers seared into his skin,
and his blood that she’s drawn
dripping down onto her bruises.
For every place they clash
is also a place they touch:
her knee to his stomach,
his heel to her shin,
fist to back
neck and neck
name to blessing
ghost to flesh
pulses slamming
against each other the
same sacred, dissonant
discontent.
Backyard Apricots 