Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World

The morning air is all awash with angels—Richard Wilbur, “Love Calls Us to the Things of This World”



The eyes open to a blue telephone 
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel. 

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber, 
Proctologist, urologist, or priest? 

Who is blessed among us and most deserves 
The first call? I choose my father because 

He’s astounded by bathroom telephones. 
I dial home. My mother answers. 

“Hey, Ma,” I say, “Can I talk to Poppa?” 
She gasps, And then I remember that my father 

Has been dead for nearly a year. “Shit, Mom,” 
I say. “I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry— 

How did I forget?” “It’s okay,” she says. 
“I made him a cup of instant coffee 

This morning and left it on the table— 
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years— 

And I didn’t realize my mistake 
Until this afternoon.” My mother laughs 

At the angels who wait for us to pause 
During the most ordinary of days 

And sing our praise to forgetfulness 
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings. 

Those angels burden and unbalance us. 
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback. 

Those angels, forever falling, snare us 
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.

--Sherman Alexie (1966- ), member off the Spokane/Coeur d/Alene Nation, poet, playwright, short story writer, novelist, filmmaker, from Face, 2006