First Angel

First angel fell from the sky

in a gray three-piece suit.

He looked around and said no,

I think there might be some mistake:

I did not come to save your soul.

I will not make you whole:

I will make you entire.

If you need a missing piece,

you may want to try another angel.

I am first angel; I do not exist.

Rather, I believe that I am

salt or ghee, the clarifying principle

of soups, curries, and casseroles,

your own arch-invisible friend of difference,

a gloss of Butterschmalz and ego.

Second angel wears sexier ties,

and may write poetry, but first

angel balances expense reports

and drinks coffee for the preservation

of mankind's constituent pretzels.

First angel will not hold you at night,

and doesn't know that he wants to.

He watches over you and corrects

your subtle spine with pins

made of entelechy and whalebone.

I want to see you naked, he says,

otherwise I will not know

what to pass over, or where to find

and kill your dirty edenic fantasies

behind all that nomos and ginger.

He stole your father's belt

instead of a kiss when he spent the night

at your place. A braided cilice

now slices you waist to keep your figure

maiden, but thinner!