prayedfor

anonymous asked:

Would you consider writing a poem about a fallen angel experiencing their first snow? I know it's really oddly specific but I'm curious to see how you build it. I'm absolutely in love with your works and hope to see you publish it sometime soon!

you first experience it while walking
back to your apartment with a paper bag
of mulled wine in your small hands.

you look up: the sky is silver
like an ache & you can smell in the air
how the earth churns, then lets go.

when the snow touches you,
it is as soft & stinging as your dreams
about Home.

                       once, you had the wing
feathers of a hawk, mouth made of burning
coals, the rage of stars inside you.

now, you are a body of tender blood
& slow learning. this morning you prayed
for this snow, you whispered,

God, if you’re still listening, i want you
to reach down & hold me.

you were shaking.

                                when you return
to the apartment, you will crank up the thermo-
stat, huddle under blankets, drink slowly,

sing quiet hymns. but for now you laugh,
a deep, ribs-hurting laugh, alone
on the streets with only this snow & God,

your heart full of a new kind of burning.

Making A Living

No I don’t
Wish you
Death
Though I’m sure
You have beaten me
To it
As I drive
The hard bargain
Between us  
Which stands
As a business
Of rage

Where I learned
From the best
Of the bosses
Who swore
That his son
Was amenable
To abuse
Which he’d taken
Directly
With a mother
Who feared
For her life

And created
A family
So cold
He can barely
Exist
In its climate
Near the place
Where I used
To cross fingers
Out of hoping
We’d heal
Over time

On the floor
Of a basement
Unfinished
In the house
Of remarkable
Prisons
Which fail
To have bars
You can
Witness
But feel
Every night
Over food

As thickness
That’s wound
By the silence
Like tension
Uncut
By our demons
Which fester
And turn
Ever sadder
As the age
Of our hatred
Grows old  

But love
Was not fond
In our interest
Of half-assed
Attempts
Just fix it
As we only
Had prayed
For those instants
To last
Just as long
As our breaths

When telling
Our woes
And resentments
Oddly
With a smile
Soon after
And ignoring
The pain
Which accompanied
Ignoring
That lie  
Every day  

Though you swear
All the hardship
Was relevant
To building
This fate
Now distinguished
So far from
The one
I had asked for
As a child
Whose home
Was his hurt  -

The curse
You called making
A living

That I find
Now to be
Such a shame.

- J. Pigno