John Biscello

She came to me when I was a child. Let’s say when I was two, no three. She came to me when I was three. That is me, aged three, centuries ago, someone else’s tears crystallized into this frail pulsing thing, this life form, that is I and here she comes: an angel, maybe an angel, an angel why not with massive feather-ribbed wings which, when extended, generate a musical whoosh and siege of air that became hurricane to my small world. These wings went over me, caved three year old me in the dark, and I wanted to stay there, like that, a Braille carving, the dark, the cave made of wingbeats and windmusic—a cocoon—reeking of lilacs—I wanted to curl up and die—disappear—why had I come—whose tears were responsible for this—for birthing me here—if only—the lilac infused darkness went away—glaring whorish light returned—the angel was nowhere—I small and alone—utterly small and alone—someone came to pick me up, a mouth, a future—I went with them—what choice did I have—hands picked me up and took me away but I didn’t want them—I wanted the angel the dark the winds the lilacs—hands stole me from my deepest longings and desires—who cried me here—this world not my world—my world gone—I had no words for it—I would never have any words for it—wordless alone small worldless—but there was one thing—memory of the angel’s name placed under my tongue for safekeeping—a name that would remain hidden there— a sliver of broken star burned under my tongue—music of a scar—2066. My angel’s name is 2066. I must find her.

Image by Heather Ross