The Christmas angel in the window,
a headless, legless mutilation,
stands propped by a steel rod.
She’s encased in tulle’s grace
of white netting, goose feathers,
and golden papier-mâché wings.
Spray painted mannequin, her
silver skin will never know
the feel of flesh. We can imagine
how she fell from heaven’s station,
her wings the rays of the winter sun,
their golden light growing dim
the closer to the earth she came.
Now she finds herself among
the crowd of slippers, cotton t-shirts,
and stuffed dogs that fill the space
about her. O Winged Victory,
O Venus de Milo, Louvre bound
and perfectly broken, you cannot
tear the heart more open than
an angel on the street with us.
—V. P. Loggins