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“Do you suppose it ever occurs to an angel to worry because he is not an archangel? or to think that if he works a little harder or makes the right angelic friends he’ll get elevated in the heavenly hierarchy? That’s nonsense. My guardian angel is equal, as far as rank goes, to any archangel. It’s we earthlings who’ve lost sight of the fact that it’s a difference of kind, not in degree. And anyhow it doesn’t matter, because my guardian angel is fully what he is, performing wholly the function for which God has created him. At the moment, this function is to watch over me. After I die, he might be assigned to sweeping stardust out of a corner of the sky. But because he is doing what he is created to do, radiantly, joyfully, no matter how difficult I make it for him, I can catch some of his joy. Without my angel’s joy, where would I be?”

-Madeleine L’Engle
The Other Side of the Sun

we are

stained

in blue

she lives beneath evening covers of sepia tones

cast by the shadows of dark city streets

her joints grind, rusted from cold

and rats sit watch over her world made broken

by the rain

a woman making herself nothing more than a body

to exploit man’s flawed desire and lust

becomes faceless

and without love

a prostitute that leaves with the morning.

never will she be the apple of his eye

the object of his affection

his joy

for God does not sanction the ways of the temptress

his true paths bring peace and are marked by joy and love.

the woman without a face is made to be her own worst enemy.