The Name Of Poem:
Abecedarian needs further examination of the Anglikan Seraphim Subjugation of the Wild Indian Reservation.
Angels don't come on reservations.
Bats, maybe, or owls, boxy spotted things.
Coyotes, too. They all mean the same thing-
Death. And death
Angels eat, I guess, because I haven't seen an angel
Never fly through this valley.
Gabriel? Never heard of this. Know a man named Gabby
He came here to a powwow and stayed, normal
Indians are definitely on it.
Jailbird that he was. He drives around in stolen cars. Where does he stop?
Children grow from a woman's womb like a gourd.
As I said, I have never heard of an Indian who has ever seen or seen an angel.
Maybe at a Christmas pageant or something
The Church of the Nazarene holds one every December,
Pastor John's wife hosted. This is not surprising.
Pastor John's son is an angel—everyone knows that angels are white.
Stop worrying about angels, I say. They are not good for Indians.
Remember what happened last time.
A white god came floating in the sea?
The truth is that there may be angels, but only if there are angels.
Living there on the clouds or wearing planks across the ocean
Velvet dresses and golden rings, drinking whiskey from silver goblets,
We're better off if they stay rich and fat and ugly
'Exactly where they are—in their own distant heavens.
You better hope you never see angels on the floor. If you do, they will take you.
Zion or Oklahoma, or any other hell they have prepared for us.
