Emma

14

Summer's the Time for Angels

And depending on which TV show you watch,
that statement may or may not
be terrifying. But it's true.
angel – Greek angelos – messenger.
Angel of The Lord or Term of Endearment.
Or a statue that'll snap your neck. Spoilers.
That made no sense and I didn't mean it to.
Because how do you describe the feeling
of climbing on a plane, speeding down
the runway, watching dawn break
like an egg, like an iPhone screen–
ha ha– letting the world turn pale gold,
bleached out by lemon juice
and sunlight. How do you describe the feeling
of a world caught in a jar with half
a dozen fireflies, blinking and winking,
Tinker Bell and the Faith Hill song,
and I know my eyes are glowing like they swallowed
up all the firelight, don't tell me otherwise.
(An ideal world would be safe,
right? Isn't that what we mean by World Peace?
We don't live in an ideal world.)
When you're scared, don't think.
Don't let your mind catch the hem
of its cape on all the sharp corners,
all the thorns and barbed wire, don't think
of the future, of reality, of the darkness
on the surface of the moon.
And definitely don't think about high school.
Or hashtags. Or your own twisted generation.
Don't think about placement exams
or freshmen orientation, or that Time
and Youth just might be slipping
right out of your hands. I don't want to believe that.
And I don't believe in angels. Books,
though, books I believe in.
And that humanity has a shard
of decency at its core,
though we rarely act on it. We prefer to drink
our sorrows. We prefer to drown.
We shoot the messenger and the sheriff
and whoever else gets in our way.
This is humanity. The Great Human Race. Don't you see?
Summer swallows us whole. Faith takes practice.
I believe in myself,
but I don't believe in you.