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5 Constellation of Angels Above the city, the constellation of angels glows. In the tribal dreams thick with broad leaves and clans of red fish and moons, the psychics sigh. They know we all come from lost tribes. Those who have lost their dreams, the world over, feel their eyes sealed with concrete and wake aching to see the natural world. I emerge from the temple of the Dream-Walkers, standing with one cloudy hand on the dark red maples, breathing the lunar downpour of air. I am a being from the Other Side, as you call it. But there are many sides and temples. Did not your Holy One say that his father’s mansion had many rooms? I stand by the Temple of Reedy Rivers, its doors made of shifting sand and yellow canaries. There are many doors; I am one of them. My eyes can be as glittery as dragonfly wings. Or they can be as piercing as a cop’s. I step out and see the young woman who lives in the dark cracks of the city. Her lips are swollen; there is a black bubble of skin, the blood welling up and thickening. Her stomach is rounded with a new human hungry for life. She is remembering that her man hit her. She saw the bottle in one of his fists, and from the other fist, stars exploded. His long warrior’s face was oily. She said she was sorry. She is a bearer of souls and fleshes out their bones with tiny veins and nerves that twitch at the sound of her heartbeat. She should never feel sorry. But she apologizes for his anger at life. Mary is my Other, my special human. She would think of me as her guardian angel if she knew my palms touched her. The top of her head feels like sunshine. Once, I divided my ancient self into grasses and wind. Long ago, I walked with the wind, which came from the lack of hooks and seams, mountains and buildings. Then humans made grass huts and ziggurats and forgot that the wind came from the Great Breath. 6 I watched over the humans with their thick thighs and golden arms. Or their skin dark as grapes or those with skins the color of almonds. Life on earth is heavy with burdens. Whenever I return to the Temple, into the nets of turquoise butterflies, I am astonished at my lightness. Mary lives in a cold house. It has three rooms, but she lives in the kitchen. There she washes her underwear and hangs it over the backs of two chairs to dry. She has a table. Around it, Mary has piled newspapers and in the middle is a space where she places her older baby so she can be safe. Her man has big heavy boots that do not always care about what they step on. When he wears them, the floor shakes. She’s a good mother. She takes care of him, too. She washes his clothes. She feeds him. And when he is drunk, she understands the logic of shadows and becomes one. She’s a chameleon; she wears her self-effacing camouflage the way a rose wears its thorns. When he hit her he was thinking of another woman. He hadn’t been home all night: he’d been with this other woman, and seeing Mary made him feel guilty. He hit her and felt better when she fell down. Her legs turned sideways to protect her stomach. He forgave her for existing. For a moment, though, seeing her curled on the floor, his leg ached to kick her. The other woman had big brown nipples and small eyes the color of steel knives. He felt like he was being skinned alive when she looked at him over a shot of gin. But later, she moved her hips under him and she was very different than Mary, whose belly is baglike. The other woman had pretty hair. He couldn’t remember her name. Maybe he’d see her again at that bar. Or maybe not. He recalled the green army jacket she wore with nothing underneath so her breasts hung free, ready for grabbing. She’d worn a tight short skirt and black stilettos. He’d seen her a few times before, smoking outside the bar, but she’d always ignored him. Last night, she’d been too drunk to remember that she’d rather be...

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