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(1942 - / Houston, Texas.)

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Angels

Elliot Ray Neiderland, home from college
one winter, hauling a load of Herefords
from Hogtown to Guymon with a pint of
Ezra Brooks and a copy of Rilke’s Duineser
Elegien on the seat beside him, saw the ass-end
of his semi gliding around in the side mirror
as he hit ice and knew he would never live
to see graduation or the castle at Duino.

In the hospital, head wrapped like a gift
(the nurses had stuck a bow on top), he said
four flaming angels crouched on the hood, wings
spread so wide he couldn’t see, and then
the world collapsed. We smiled and passed a flask
around. Little Bill and I sang Your Cheatin’
Heart and laughed, and then a sudden quiet
put a hard edge on the morning and we left.

Siehe, ich lebe, Look, I’m alive, he said,
leaping down the hospital steps. The nurses
waved, white dresses puffed out like pigeons
in the morning breeze. We roared off in my Dodge,
Behold, I come like a thief! he shouted to the town
and gave his life to poetry. He lives, now,
in the south of France. His poems arrive
by mail, and we read them and do not understand.

Submitted: Tuesday, March 06, 2012
Edited: Tuesday, March 06, 2012


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Comments about this poem (Thermoregulation in Winter Moths by B H Fairchild )

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  • John Vincent (3/17/2014 4:53:00 PM)

    I adore words that sing, but this is magical. I just laugh and repeat. That last line...thank you Mr Fairchild.

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  • Michael Morgan (3/17/2014 8:31:00 AM)

    Magnificent poem; suspenseful narrative, irony, gorgeous packaging, important idea, American idiom; great 'twist'. What more do you need MM

  • J. River (3/16/2012 2:49:00 AM)

    Hey man, nice write. I got chills when the angels showed up :)

  • Martin O'Neill (3/6/2012 8:33:00 AM)

    This reminds me of the style of Tom Waits in Frank's wild Years. Erudite, touching and perfectly observed.

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