Michael Welcomes Christ

I stand behind the door as

a gentle breeze blows through my wings.

Silence is an old friend,

entering without knocking, staying

to clean up the kitchen.

My spine is straight,

my chest unmoving. In my hands rests

a staff, riddled with purple and red and gold,

the only colors besides the white surrounding 

the space beyond the walls. 

My ears start to pulse as a low hum

spreads. Gentle and quiet at first, then crescendoing 

into a symphony of vibration, the squeal of a firework before it bursts.

I stand there still, though I feel my legs 

bending and my wings expanding. A loud

crack echoes through my body. Lightning. A map of scars and bruises

appears two paces in front of the door. A man, broken. 

His flesh peeling the way the skin of an orange would 

around dozens of wounds, lacerations, holes. My eyes narrow

as I take in His damaged form,

His feet marked by two punctures, 

black and broken and bruised all around, His arms 

like branches of a tree when they have been growing

into a fence, thorns and branches unrecognizable from each other. 

I stand there still, staring at this man, the gentle breeze from before 

now so strong I have to widen my stance to remain standing. 

He raises His hand slowly, eyes darkening like

the movement alone is too much. His eyes meet mine through the window,

and His smile to me then is like the feeling a child

is going to get millenia from now, almost asleep in

their parents’ car, feeling the road shift and

knowing they have turned onto the street that leads to home. 

He knocks on the door, and I ask,

“Who is it? Who is it?”