After Robert Hayden
When she still tried to entertain over holidays,
before she gave up on pretending things were normal,
she’d often choose a night he worked and set to cleaning house
and placing little bowls of snacks around, begging us to please
not eat them, giving us tasks we probably didn’t complete.
There was a glimmering lull before the first guest arrived,
the tree still lit though school had started up again.
We were on our best behavior for her sake,
and once her friends were all amassed
in a crush of perfume and whiskey sours,
would hang on the stairs and ledges of the night
the way angels are shown to lounge on clouds,
waiting for something to go terribly wrong,
willing the air (in the ineffectual way of angels) to shine.
