Martha J. Eshelman
I'll Be No Youthful Angel
Angels sit on pins
and flap white wings
without an eyeblink
of passing time.
Angels walk barefoot
through satin mud
and emerge with clean
Angels wear silk robes
with gold and amber crewel
with no sweat guards
or basement laundry.
I'm old, gilded with sweat,
perfumed in garlic and grease,
sprawled on a clump of sheets,
more alive than any angel.
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