Angelic Creation Poem by Gracie Michard

i remember my mother telling me that my grandfather became an angel.

she did not mention the burning agony involved.
how you can feel you shoulder blades break
as wings protrude from your back.
becoming holy is a horrible process-
the light is blinding, the smell of blood so thick,
a drum pounds in your head, calling you to join the legion.
they thrust a harp into your shaky hands,
one that is fashioned out of your bones and sinews.
you feel lightning shoot through your veins,
frying every nerve and ounce of humanity in you.
the rebirth is more painful than your death,
and you regret trying to end your suffering.
you ended up just getting more.

eventually, you get to Heaven, and pass the gates.
the streets are not gold, but instead are iron.
it is both too dark, and too bright, an eternal solar eclipse.
You try to follow the crowd, but they aren't singing.

Micheal looks at you apologetically as he marches past.
his sword is rusted red with blood of his human brothers-
he is sorry. he just wanted to protect them.
he goes back to his patrol around the city.

Gabriel reminisces an early June, the summer warmth,
and how he begged Mary to say no, to stay away.
but a mother's love conquers all, he guessed.
he sips on a glass of Dionysus' strongest.

Ramiel still has wet hands from holding the Rain-
he held Ananiel when he fell, wings broke and twisted,
his forsaken lover charred and burnt in his arms.
the Thunder still looks for his partner in every storm.

you ask them how they do it, as you sit around a fire.
your back is still sore and ears are ringing.
they talk of His wrath, and of His power,
as they have seen it first hand.
they have felt His judgment tear into them-
chew them up and spit them back out,
he pieced and made them into perfect soldiers,
and they tell you how they await the final battle.
they tell you of their plans for then,
of the humanity they plan to keep.
when they fight, swords raised and fire raining down,
they will apologize with each kill, hearts broken-
when did holiness become so cruel and brutal?

you cry yourself to sleep that night,
blood-stained feathers draped over your shivering body.
it is cold up in the heavens, with no sun for warmth.
you pray for hope, you beg to go back.
you beg to be thrown into the fire.
and He laughs, the ringing getting louder,
your ears burning and brain seared.
you regret everything.

i remember my mother telling me that my grandfather became an angel.
and i asked her what he had done wrong to receive such a punishment.