Flying Things

If humans ever did evolve wings,
They would likely have to lose the use
Of their arms for other purposes—

And yet, despite all the evidence
Of bats, birds, and pterodactyl bones
Flittering around the whole planet,

We never imagine our angels
Or even fiery, bat-winged demons
As armless. Why is this? We haven’t

Hesitated to take the hind limbs,
The human legs away from mermaids.
Centaurs aren’t horse haunches and bare toes.

Is our handiness so essential,
That we think magic needs its digits
And the sacred depends on gestures?

Give me a Gabriel, a deva,
A son of the Morning Star disarmed.
See them? Our shadowy descendants,

Perched in canopies, on cliffs, in clouds,
Narrow-bodied, light-boned, and brooding,
Shrouded in their giant, thoughtful wings.