Georgia Riordan
modern angels are nihilists
there is a seraph who skulks around the liquor store
in the hours between twilight and dawn. despite her
many crooked mouths she doesn’t talk much—
she’s always gripping a vape in one hand
and a bottle of patrón in another. on the day
the rain drove the floundering worms to the sidewalk,
she told me, with my palms full of wrigglers,
that there was nothing divine left
in me. i asked her how come
and she coughed out an answer:
gods do not waste time moving us out of harm’s way.