By Elizabeth Anne Schwartz
Your wife’s future wife is here,
she whispers to him,
her breath warm on his cheek—
he ignores
the murmur of her wings.
Her amber eyes reflect the glow
of the streetlamps outside,
where my future wife wanders,
head bowed,
hood raised
so not even the angel
can see her face.
Meanwhile, I pass the church steps,
the pieces of my heart
tucked into my arms
like a child—
I don’t know how else
to carry them home.
The angel’s lips
are at the nape of my neck,
and I tremble,
but I don’t yet feel
my lover’s pull,
the calm in the eye of her storm,
as we cross paths.
I go home to my husband.
We eat dinner at the table,
and the angel sits with us.
Quiet as death between us,
she bides her time.
Elizabeth Anne Schwartz (she/her), born on Friday the 13th, writes sapphic stories and dark, enchanting tales. She earned her BA in Creative Writing at Purchase College, and has work featured or forthcoming in The Lovers Literary Journal, Hearth & Coffin Literary Journal, and the Under Her Eye women-in-horror poetry showcase from Black Spot Books, among others. Follow her on Twitter @elizanneschwa
