Updraughts lift sounds of language imperceptibly, even
the silent language of Lula as she hobbles up the steps.
Tiny enough to be an eternal pup, she’s growing older,
stopping to groom a forepaw, pulling up wet tufts of fur
from between her nails. Dogs Lula doesn’t know
bark along the terraces, bamboo rustles. Even blind,
we know the angels by their sounds: angel of September,
angel of the fallen fig and dapple. Angel of perspective
that staggers the terraces upward, white steps downward,
angels of the mountains – the first, the second, the third.
And the angels circle us like lepers on the hills,
they unveil themselves. And I love my angels
not as they were in childhood, angel of the crabapple
and chine, of calico and sandal, but as they are now:
leprous and discharged, violent and betrayed.
Angel of the soft wind that blows across my breasts.
http://www.mimikhalvati.co.uk/ Written at the Almassera in 2012 - shortly to be published in PN Review