Site Search via Google

A Miscellany 66
Wings of Desire

by Michael J. Barney

To open a discussion on this article, please use the contact page to provide your comments.

Wings of Desire (for Cassiel and Damiel)   O host of the luminous holy— we are the envy of every angel who ever wanted breath to shout the blues— for it is flesh, after all, that forms words in the mouth, on the tongue, in the heart; and those poor sad creatures beating their wings in bright nowhere three slow beats in every bar know the only true holy creatures in any dimension are corporeal; hearts inside bodies vulnerable as ash.  Angels cannot break, can feel neither the sting of words nor their palliation.  Despite the sky, there are no blues in Heaven, only paler shades of gray.  Blues and yellows and crimsons and magentas always beat uncolors because they can be seen, words and the music they contain can be heard, and this is what holies the pregnable flesh of humans, this is what angels envy: human senses, human desires, our hearts ever hapless and full to bursting.  At the heart of this matter is love.  Love blows through the blues. Love touches flesh touching flesh.  Angels have no flesh to touch, no mouths to taste the sweet beaten grape, no nose to know flowers from offal.  Wholly bereft of the mechanics of desire, they have but one: that the word be made flesh—dropping their wings for words, robes for wrap-around skin, harps for hearts: to become fully human, truly holy. Angels know no blues, but know the blues sanctify the constant heavy-hearted beating that solid life inflicts on those angels strong and foolish enough to desire and attain flesh.  Angels no more, having mumbled the magic words “I love you” with the proper attitude of beatitude, their bodies awkward and stumbling through the heart of the world, they will learn loving, leaving, grieving, the blues and the loose rules of joy—the goal of all holiness. Holiness comes to every angel who learns the true words of the blues— humans have hearts that break, yet beat on.