Do you know how many angels you have
to whom you owe thanks for your life?
What if your angels were like me?
What if they felt so much, being your angel,
that they were angry with you?

What if one needed to see you —
one who had compared for a moment
the risks between breaking your neck
and breathing into your mouth?
The scar on the side of your head
is the opening that spilled blood on her hand.

What if the angel came to the brink of tears
thinking of you walking around,
grateful not to have seen you die?
Would you have any idea?
Would you care about her tears, her anger?

Do you love your angel —
the mere fact that she
had the courage to risk
your neck for your air?
Would you understand that anger?

Are you risking your neck again,
five ways at once?
Are you risking your breath?
How bad are your angels?


Inspired, in part, by The Wounded Angel — oil painting by Hugo Simberg, 1903, Finland

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