Cherub
![Putto with bird and cage](https://cdn.sanity.io/images/k7wdeuj3/production/43b157015f9875dff6513125f03fa3ade19b5c3b-2143x3000.jpg?rect=122,312,1326,1326&w=400&h=400)
A cherub drops out of the sky in the night,
plumps onto the balcony
outside the study window.
I see him through the bedroom window
where I lay awake in a dream.
I see dark hair, naked
fat limbs in a crouch
like a Raphael or Botticelli putto —
eyes crinkling, mouth in a smirk.
And ask him what he's
laughing about.
He hums
a Jackson tune I know.
I catch the words
redemption and
barricades and
want to know why that
is funny.
I say, "I am working out my
redemption.
It is serious business."
He says, "It's play."
I think about that.
I play with words at that
study desk and on that
balcony between the
windows
where I nap and dream.
Now he's humming
about Jackson's lights
and a vision of a blessing.
But my pages, this cherub
reminds me, are destined to
rip, ignite, bleach, blow
away.
Only the playing I do
accompanies me
to heaven.