My Guardian Angel's Bed (Louis Toliver Jr-Swartz, LA)

“I want you in my bed”

He said to me in sincerity

The phone call came when

I was in the middle of my shift

As a dancer at the Lost Angel

A bar near the lake of fire

I had a made a pact with Lucifer

In order to protect my family

Other angels weren’t as aware as me

Though I had to learn seduction to save them

I was the best one at it, it pained God

But I was God’s spy and very loyal

But the pay of the job kept me employed

Much longer than I had intended

“You should be with one person”

He spoke again, Stefan, he was the one

The call came when I was on break

I was sitting on a flaming couch

Fire no longer burned me, my wings scorched

Yet still beautiful and ready to take flight

“My senses are weak, how will I find you?”

I frantically used my smell, my sight weak

He was close but I wasn’t certain

With all my might, I left the Lost Angel

I flew into the sky, ash falling from my wings

When I got outside his house outside the Gates

I could see heaven over the moon

Neither I nor Stefan were ready for liberation

Though our union could set that path

I banged on the door and he opened it

He was the sexiest angel I had ever seen

He had skin burns like me, but long healed

He was brushing his teeth and told me go to his bed

“You’re too beautiful to be dancing for Him”

I sat and stared, wondering why this angel cared

I was too guarded, too burned, to believe him

“I want you in my bed, I watched you for 900 years”

I gasped. What did he mean? Was he for real?

His face seemed sincere and then grabbed me

He kissed me and I weakened and I healed

The ashes of my wings began to become white, feathery

I looked at his arms and, there, in front of my face

Was a tattoo of me. He was my guardian angel.

All the pain I carried was gone and I saw my husband

I laid in bed with him and fit into him like a puzzle piece

(to be continued)

Comments

Come Hither (Annette Redmond Walters - Lafayette, LA)

I meant it not this way but the tears just flow and my makeup smearing all the more, leaving behind that familiar filthy residue. I may have begun to drive myself away, dragging you down as well. But it's done, I've flipped the switch and now it's dark once more. How painful is the music to my ears, I can't stand to be alone in it, yet here I am again. I pray you fly back and safely and warmly to me, though I fear I've dug the grave too deeply. As the dirt shifts within my soul, I choke on those loving words I'd meant for you. All the fragments of light I see becoming smaller and I wish to be near you in your embrace that might make me feel the warmth I'm missing. And in reality, I doubt I'd breathe another breath without you. So come hither and quickly soothe my dying heart, you are the only cure I know. I cry and cry again, come hither to heal and love me. Come hither and help me dry my tears.

Let That Fucker Burn (John Chenvert - Napoleonville, LA)

Let that fucker burn. Let the fire crackle like the whips once did— like bone meeting leather, like screams swallowed by the trees. Let the white columns crumble to ash. Not as tragedy— but as truth, unearthing itself from beneath generations of silence. Nottoway is not a mansion. It’s a mausoleum. A lie carved in stone to honor the hands that held the whip, not the backs that bore it. They called it the “White Castle.” A place of beauty. A place for weddings, for photo ops, for pretending that horror can be made elegant if the curtains match the guilt. But no paint can cover what happened there. Blood doesn’t wash out with white linens. And pain doesn’t forget just because you renamed it history. I’m not Black. And I won’t pretend to carry that weight. But I also won’t ignore it. My people—the Guanches—were taken too. Our language silenced. Our land stolen. Our names nearly erased. So yes, I know colonization. Yes, I know what it means to be disappeared. But I also know this— my skin ...

The Peculiar New Room (Nick Perere - Baton Rouge, LA)

A peculiar fourth room has appeared in my three bedroom abode. High ceilings Higher than any ceiling in the house Perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls The largest window one can imagine Stretching from floor to ceiling Wide as an ocean’s horizon Revealing the lushest greenery and the bluest skies. I am meant to show masterpieces here. But in one of the corners o f the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls i s an ugly patch of dirt. Dirt darker than charred coal. And the dirt is crawling And multiplying. With their spindly legs and dangly antennae Vermin covered in filth and willingly ready to spread their germs Scuffing the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls. But I have to move on, I have a gallery to exhibit. Smile and act as if nothing is wrong. Come. Enjoy the show. Enjoy the artwork hanging Upon the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls.

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