michael the archangel, castel sant’angelo, rome

he stands impenetrable
overlooking her shadow,
doesn’t see that she
hasn’t washed her hair
in days, turns his head
from the brightness
glinting in her eyes.
his hands don’t feel
her unshaven legs or
the crushing weight
of silences, and so he
never notices when
her shadow wavers and breaks
as, hips swaying dangerously,
she stands and walks away.

(and yet late at night,
clutching handfuls of empty sheet
you awaken, unsure, ask the mirror
“was it me she was thinking about?
or the angel?”)