Black-green wings
peek through the trees
and invite her and me
into the thicket.

The harsh gloom
and poisonous spill
of the forest,
and such torn
and mangy wings.

Behind those wings
is an angel.
Its face
twists in coils,
like snakes
made of scars and
sordid valleys.
Its brow
bends inward,
and its eyes
are milky beads
on red ash.

And when I pour my
acrid body
through her
sacred flesh,
I will not speak
of heavens above
and below
and within.
And of all the creatures
therein.

I hold her luster,
as we step
into the forest.