I used to believe in happy accidents
until I met a man who
loved me
like an earthquake,
shook apart all my cities,
Sweet Jericho, and no red cords to be seen
It was not Samson, it was
the walls themselves
landing like crescendos

They say
angels play trumpets
but I know it’s really men
wielding poems in the night
And anyway, no angel
can touch the backs of my thighs
with callused hands that have carried
all the weight of being
a person; angel hands could never
do what human hands can
Angel hearts are too perfect
for breaking
I know now
it’s just accidents
and my heart still
full of tremors
and my lungs trying
to drown in songs
I sit very still when I tell this story
to show how steady my hands are

Apocalypse carnival mistress, essayist, and animated story maker. orderoflostthings.com

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store