(When I Heard the Song of the Three-Legged Stool)

I was in the trees. That was the day I knew I could feel the quivering down of
all bees, and, in me, resurrection—my heart for some reason choosing

itself to be a warm forest for their release. In the Mat-su Valley, angelology,
lots and lots of He. Cherubim and seraphim, all was mine, mine by the right

of a white election. Three mouths fell open, three pairs of eyes. It was
geothermal, the astonishment. He, everywhere, and fish-picking children—

their playthings alive, and their three-legged stool. I was so overwhelmed
with love I confused it with a stork and ended up shooting the one I wanted

to gently cuddle and coo. Grief and relief—I felt, but had no word for the
two. Ever think? Religion or guns? Day or night? Whatever leg—that it

would be a sort of abortion to choose. Now you understand why interview
came, Honey, why I went with felicity and doom. That’s want, and darn its

confusions and worship of fools. You know I love you, cherub. You know I
love you, stork. But my answer to the angel/fool question is always my

weapon, and my weapon is always pointed north.