She grew up
stars were angels,

the night glow
a back-lighting
of security,

a celestial hug;
halos, adornments of gold
for each finger, a toe

ring as an afterthought.
A Gabriel hangs above
her dashboard, a three-inch

pewter Michael guards
her desk with a silver spear,
an androgynous cherub

hugs her neck. I’m pretty
sure she can feel me
at night wrestling next

to Jacob, struggling
to fold my wings
beneath the duvet,

cursing the nightlight,
searching for my waterglass,
bending my holy cards.


Ed McManis is a writer, editor, & erstwhile Head of School. His work has appeared in more than 60 publications, including The Blue Road Reader, The RavensPerch, California Quarterly, Cathexis, Narrative, Lascaux Review, etc. He holds the outdoor free-throw record at Camp Santa Maria: 67 in a row