For Emma

I used to believe in angels
the delicate bones the skin
pure and thick as milk,
the hair that smelt of milk.

You’re stopping me
from believing in angels.
Your scars your mind,
the hair falling across your face.

Less and less I can see
the transparent part of you.

It was a delicate thing that faith
a delicate and ferocious thing
like a child.

Soon I won’t be able to see them
dancing vague across the courtyard
even if I try very hard.
I will have grown up.

Soon I’ll be able to see you
in clear focus and real
real as the self I used to be
the person who believed in angels.

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