Concrete Angel

Growing up a concrete angel, strapped
to the ground in cheap suspenders 
pleasant to a mother’s eyes, how could I not be
terrified that they would snap one day?

Hurling me from this world to the next,
where suddenly I’m arrested 
for abusing clouds, giving heaven 
it’s first black eye. 

This little boy’s heart melted like butter 
as Mama’s fried theology sizzled 
after the preacher’s last burning words
covered the black book in smoke.

A long time ago, it was my favorite. 
I wore saddle oxford shoes 
to keep my feet clean, but was quickly 
redeemed by black patent leather 

tapping my way into heaven’s ghetto 
as if what mattered then
is what matters now. 
I’m still afraid of heights.

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His work has appeared in Southern Humanities Review, North American Review and more. His work is forthcoming in The Meadow, Deep South Magazine, New Plains Review, Steam Ticket Journal and Cider Press Review. His book, “Waxing the Dents,” is from Brick Road Poetry Press.