Postcards to the Angel [unmailed]
Last night someone spiked
my drink and
[just say it]
I woke up
in a hospital bed,
all these pointless
poems bleeding
from two fingers.
Snow has covered and cleaned
vomit from the steps;
there are footprints in the ice,
blood on my door.
We always return to violence,
don’t we?
One-handed—I couldn’t reach
the insurance card.
Angel, you small windowed-god,
I have no Pesach or lamb
only the smell of bleach,
which leaves the postman
coughing.
We can be honest with each other
[can’t we?]
Here on the page, at least.
The truth then:
I am so tired
of asking you to sing.
Zachariah Claypole White is a Philadelphia-based writer and educator, originally from North Carolina. He holds a BA from Oberlin College and an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. His poetry and prose have appeared in, or are forthcoming from, such publications as Bourbon Penn, The Maine Review, and The Hong Kong Review. His awards include Flying South‘s 2021 Best in Category for poetry and a nomination for a Pushcart Prize. He teaches at the Community College of Philadelphia and the Writing Institute at Sarah Lawrence College.
