When we got back
Call said, did you stop by the library?
I said, no I never go there.
He laughed and held up his candy
and said, this is going to be a long day for you
without candy,
said, get ready for work.
I said, it’s not time yet,
I have to sleep,
and he said, get ready.
Before you do the streets today
I need you to be nice to one of my backers,
one of my money men, at his place of business.
He said, you think I like this?
all you think about is you,
you never think about what this is doing to me . . .
He said, Angel, do you love me?
Just do this for me, for us—
soon we’ll be taxpayers,
we’ll have the neighbours over, we’ll volunteer.
You with me, baby?
I got up to go because he wasn’t really asking,
and Call locked Melli in
and I found out Call’s backer was a baby dentist
with goldfish in his wall
and little couches for kids to sit in.
Call said, I don’t care how sick you are,
you smile and be sweet
or I’ll stuff that candy down your throat.
The baby dentist put me in that chair
that turned me almost upside down
and said, is this your first time?
Don’t be scared,
I’m just going to have a little look,
just open your mouth like an O
and say ahhh . . .
He didn’t even have to give me freezing
because I was already numb.
While he did his backer business
I thought about Serena,
wondering if she danced in heaven
and if God said, may I?
and spun her a galaxy,
and if he said, haven’t I always taken care of you?
and she said no
and he said sorry.
I thought about something I heard
about a skydiver whose parachute didn’t open
but he lived.
He remembered hitting the ground
like it was all pillows
because the unconscious part
came before the hurting part.
Maybe it was that way for Serena . . .
it would be just like God to do it that way.
In a dentist chair
when you’re so upside down
and you don’t have anything else to hang on to
you want to believe maybe this isn’t all you get—
when so many people try to beat the angel out of you,
you hang on for dear life.
And then the baby dentist was done
and I lived.
I always live.
When I got home
Melli was playing solitaire—
she smiled when we came in and I said,
Call, Melli has such nice teeth,
good thing she’ll never have to go to the baby dentist.
He knew what I meant
and he knew how much I meant it.
He said, I’m going out,
and he locked us in.
I got my notebook
and figured out
when you start to write a poem
you don’t know where it might go.
It’s an act of faith to write a book of you,
to believe a poem
is something you could do.
When you write a poem
you get to be a baby god-girl
and in you is a tiny universe, a dollhouse universe
with planets the size of peas and suns like marbles
all inside you . . .
and if you write it good enough
you could maybe spin the world backwards—
maybe I could watch myself walking backwards
walking away from Call and all the men
and putting the shoes back on the display shelf
and walking backwards until I was a dot
and disappeared.
I watched Melli play solitaire a long time
and she always lost
and she always started again.
When Call came back
he found me in the bathroom,
staring into the toilet
wondering if my appendix was floating in there.
He said, you can’t work that way,
and I thought, yes that is true,
but I said, it’s better for business
don’t you see?
the clients like it better
when you’re not numb—
they like it better when you can feel everything.
He smiled, said, that’s my girl.
Get out there and do good business.
Don’t mess things up for me now, okay Angel?
Not now, okay?
Just think about me for once.
And remember, you’re working for two.
I can’t keep feeding her for nothing.
So Melli and I
went out again where the girls are hungry
while they hunt,
prowling, silent, looking for Mr. Steak Dinner,
Mr. Baked Potato and Butter,
where the girls say, all nice as can be,
I’ll have mine rare
just a little blood in the middle—
they lick the bones, suck out the marrow.
They can’t waste any of it.
It’s always cold at night by the sea.
My intended wing depressed . . .
At the gate of ten thousand happinesses
Widow was already there
smoking and spitting
all dressed in black
hard as pavement,
and she said,
oh lord, get me some diapers,
this place is turning into some kinda day care—
said, I thought it was a bad high,
but you two keep turning up,
said, one of these days
I’m gonna collect that toe.
Widow said, there’s the Preacher,
he’s here for me.
But he pulled up and pointed at me.
Widow said, he’s a midtrack guy,
he means me,
and she walked to his car.
But he pointed at me again.
So I went, said, watch Melli for me.
Widow scowled at him as we drove away,
at me, too,
and I was scared with no candy
and so far no angel around a corner
and me knowing now about Mr. P
and Serena being dead.
Maybe Preacher was Mr. P,
and what if this car was crowded with ghosts—
crammed in the back,
one in the rear window,
one pushing the gas pedal,
nodding their loose heads,
laughing through slashed-open throats,
holding their gashed bellies—
I couldn’t help it,
while he was doing his business
I whispered,
angel, angel,
and he said, shut up.
So I shut up while he dirtied me down,
and I kept thinking, got to get enough for two,
enough to cover for Melli.
Without candy I saw
when afterwards his face was disgusted,
when his face said, why do I do this? I can’t stand myself
and I can’t stand you . . . that’s what I saw on his face
without candy.
When he brought me back he said, you’re so skinny,
I shouldn’t have to pay the full amount.
So he only gave me half.
I was so happy to have no knives poking in me
I didn’t even say thief.
Melli was still okay.
Drive-by eyes couldn’t get enough of us.
They stared like bullets, broke their necks to see us.
Some spat at us as they drove by.
Everybody laughed.
We are so funny.
I said, Melli, don’t be sad. Be sad for them.
They break their soul bones to touch us.
I got picked up again and again
and Melli kept being okay when I got back.
Widow said, you’re going to have to pay me for babysitting
and it better be good.
Next a man who told me he was eighty
and I said, you must be so proud.
Then a man who was a child psychologist,
and I said, you must enjoy your research.
Then a man who brought his baby girl asleep in the back seat
and I wouldn’t have done it except still not enough for two.
After that I threw up on my side of the line
just water and bubbles.
Widow said, even when you’re sick
that baby face of yours brings in the cash,
but not enough for two.
She said, free babysitting, then,
but still not enough for two.
She said, what are you going to do?
You thinking angels, right now, babyface?
Is it helping, huh?
And just then John the john pulled up.
Widow shook her head.
I said, Melli, this might take a while,
but don’t you worry, he pays good.
John opened paradise lost to book nine
and gave me the wipes
before I could touch it.
I read the best I could.
But he got mad and said,
that sentence has an elliptical clause,
so read it like that. He talked about
subordinate conjunctions
and the subjunctive mood.
What fear I then? rather, what know to fear
Under this ignorance of good and evil,
Of God or death, of law or penalty?
Here grows the cure of all, this fruit divine,
Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste,
Of virtue to make wise: What hinders then
To reach, and feed at once both body and mind?
So saying, her rash hand in evil hour
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate.
Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat
Sighing through all her works gave signs of woe,
That all was lost.
I read a long time while he breathed hard—
I wanted to keep reading,
I felt like I was getting it.
I said, how does it end?
the very last book, how does it end?
and John said, none of your business,
that is enough for tonight,
and gave me a big tip.
Almost, but still not enough for two.
Widow was on a date,
but Melli was safe, sunk into the shadows,
and she was falling asleep there on the street
for anyone to see, for anyone to take,
and I couldn’t leave her again.
So I took her past the Jimi Hendrix shrine
and I took her past stained-glass Milton in the library
and I couldn’t believe I was taking her back
without enough for two,
but I was.
Melli and I walked into Slingin’ Ink
and Tattoo started talking about his hero Tom Leppard,
who lives on the Isle of Skye in Scotland
and has leopard skin inked on every place on his body
except between his toes and inside his ears.
He said, what do you think of that, Angel?
You can paint your body
to be whatever you want.
He said, all I want is a girl of my own
who will let me draw on her, who will be my blank canvas,
but a girl like that is hard to find.
He said, Call is lucky,
he gets to decide who you are.
Tattoo said,
you think yours is the oldest profession?
No way, mine’s older.
I heard of a hunter from five thousand years ago
they found freeze-dried in a glacier
and he had tattoos—
you beat that, Angel.
And some king of England back in the middle ages
died in a big battle,
and how did they find his body on the battlefield?
His tats, that’s how.
We’re in ancient business, Angel.
He said, Angel—when?
I said, you can’t afford me.
He said, name a price.
I said how much I needed,
so it would be enough for two.
He said, don’t tell Call it was me.
He’s a cadaver.
He doesn’t talk at all
when I’m slinging ink.
He’s not alive on his skin,
he wants evil scraped into him—
I’m telling you, Angel, they’re the worst kind,
I don’t want to mess with him.
I said, I won’t tell,
and I pulled down my shirt collar
to show him my shoulder . . .
I could see that was driving him crazy,
him imagining my canvas.
I lay down on his table
and he carved me up,
whistling, singing his breath into my skin . . .
while Melli watched the stairs and me and the stairs,
while Tattoo talked and cut me up,
I said, Melli, it doesn’t hurt,
don’t worry . . . it doesn’t.
So Tattoo said, fine,
I’ll kick it into third,
pound some skin—
When he was done his face was disappointed
and I looked and he’d put a wing on my shoulder,
so real, so feathers,
pretty and weepy and bleeding,
but he was not proud—
He said, that’s not what I wanted, not what I meant.
How did you do that? How did you make my hand go
that way? I didn’t mean a wing! My mind was bent.
Whatever I want, that was the plan—I’d go slow,
I’d paint you the proof that I have a universe
in my brain, but you put a curse
on my art, and it’s your fault . . .
He threw me the money
and I went upstairs, slow, with Melli in tow
and enough for two.
When I gave the money to Call
he was in a good mood
because of getting twice as much
and still having Melli in the bank . . .
but then he saw blood on my shirt
and he looked
and he punched my wing
until it wasn’t a wing anymore
just a bruise with feathers.
He said, Tattoo,
and I said, no
and he said, ya it was
and I said, Call, it was all my fault,
and he said, don’t think you won’t pay.
He went downstairs to spill Tattoo’s ink,
and I heard something fall, and,
not my gun!
not my needles! and Call laughing—
I heard pounding, Call having fun
wrecking everything
and Tattoo crying
and Call saying, if you go to the cops about this . . .
Melli and I curled up in bed together
and this time Melli stroked my hair
and I said, if Call kills us
maybe we will be angels
light enough to fly in the clouds and sleep on them.
We will have white hair
and wear bride dresses every day
and walk through walls if we want
and watch movies for free.
Then Call came upstairs
and I waited for him to be mad at me still.
But he just stood looking at me,
said, I’m going to forgive you in good faith.
I’m not a bad guy, Angel,
you know that—
I’m just trying to do good business,
good business is good for everybody,
are you hearing me, Angel?
But, baby, I can only be so patient,
you understand?
You have to do what I say—
if you give me problems
how will my backers believe I can expand the business?
You think I’m scary, you should see them.
Call kissed me, said, our petition, our petition,
soon things will be different.
He kissed me, said,
now whenever you go through Slingin’ Ink
you’ll remember to be good,
you’ll remember you and Melli belong to me.
I went into the kitchen
and cut up the tomatoes.
Tomatoes are really fruits.
Nobody knows what kind of fruit
was on the tree of knowledge in book nine—
My Book of Life By Angel Page 6