They Don't Sing
       

All of those original doves—
They peck around God's ankles,
At meat his favored creatures eat
Unchewed. Lighting on his shoulders,
Putti, seraphim, and cherubim
Ruffle light around the throne.
Archangels perch hooded on His forearm.

Busy in my flesh and song,
I croon my jubilate for the raptors,
Wrap my soul in feathers,
Send it, leashed, to peck at heaven.
I never meant to feel the stoop and slash.

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Copyright © 2013 Devon Miller-Duggan All rights reserved
from Neither Prayer, Nor Bird
Finishing Line Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission