my own azrael

I imagine her
with a granite cliff underfoot
wisps of hair, her thousands of wings
reaching to paint the sky

keep me away from the edge she'd say
or I might fly off
and a breeze would take to heaven
her soft, sweet laughter

and she'd tell me sometimes
the rain doesn't stop at noon
the weatherman, that liar,
he would never hold fate.

our mountains sing
music only she can hear
and she walks on their ridges
carelessly kicking her steps

so I claw at the mountainside
desperate to see her
screeching, trapped between city and sky
oh, come to me, azrael.

poetry copyright Jennilyn Eaton
photo courtesy Craig Lloyd