The Last Angel Summer

COHORT 3

down the street, the river bar finally closed 

and dad saw angels on highway 302—wings 

down, just walking. real angels: with bug 

eyes and azalea fingers, twirling a marlboro 

menthol in their mouth of mouths. he swears 

he saw them, but didn’t say hi—said, it looked 

like they had somewhere to be. we all have 

somewhere to be. like, right now i’m almost-

angeling in the blue barn, sojourning through 

storage containers to find my desk hutch 

for the soon year. right now, i’m remembering 

how dad took me to that old fish store down 

bush river road and we bought tetras. ten 

tetras for our tank. and how they sat in my lap 

on the way home, darting around like miracles 

in a polyethylene bag. maybe the angels had fish 

in their pockets—little bags of freshwater magic 

to keep them grounded. practical magic: the kind 

that keeps the wild grapes uneaten by the river 

and the wobbly-legged fawn safe in the field 

eating bahia. soon enough, dad will pack 

the truck and i will gather up our spare magic 

and go—but that’s future tense talk, which 

i’ve heard angels aren’t so fond of. so here’s 

the present: today, we eat homemade pancakes 

and nap through the afternoon thunderstorm. 

today, we walk down to the river and watch 

the water striders dance to the quiet hum of 

the woods. today, we see a new flock of angels 

out in our tomato patch picking their share, 

and we don’t stop them. they have somewhere 

to be, dad says. we all have somewhere to be.