A psychotic angel rests
with a knife in her mouth
behind the door of a treehouse
and wonders if she is a self-centered
pawn of His,
a thought that knocks at her sub-self-conscious
with crumbling embered finger tips
and liquid rings.
Gold drips like feathers from a molting bird
down her forearm.
Molten rings harden to drown her left fist
is cage punishment:
A frantic makeshift penitentiary
just for our psychotic angel,
an afterlife sinner.
Mary spent every morning this past year
in front of the mirror trying to convince herself:
Sex with a she-angel doesn’t count.