The Booty Calls of Angels

The booty calls of angels
Happen in sacred places
Like confessionals.
They claim our prayers
Are booty calls,
Then tell us to
Strip or we can’t
Go to heaven.
Of course we comply.
They draw wings of ash
On our backs
And tell us to chat like angels
But we don’t know how
Because we’re human.
We try, we talk about harmony,
Melody, and beauty
But that just gets them crazy
And they tell us to shut up
And knead their halos
With our unholy hands.
We ask them to be gentle
With their sinewy wings,
But they molt in our mouths
As we gag on prickly feathers
Seasoned by the remains of our ancestors.
Their breath melts our minds
If they kiss with too much tongue,
And their mouths don’t taste
Like heaven or holy water,
But of airplane exhaust
Because that’s a delicacy
Where they come from.