FALLEN ANGELS
- Feb 7
- 1 min read
By Ronan Collins
Sitting alone at her Five Wounds
of Christ where she feeds the pigs
of her animal farm.
Chippy manifestos of god’s purloin her
husband’s soul, & the devil’s
[steel ice] infernal son.
Shaky heart physically rocking her
brittle bones, prayers of Patron Saints:
Colmcille, Brigid, & Patrick.
I stand in lee of my
bedroom window from the praying &
saints, they never help.
I postulate words Nikola Tesla proclaimed,
‘There are many fallen angels here on
Earth,’ god’s fall too.
My mother an apparition of herself
so, I succour her ancient featherless wings
eviscerating the animal farm.
My brother comes home from work
the house cleaned & dinner’s cooked, he
never observes fallen angels.