It was a mess of feathers scattered
across the room; some still afloat, some
lay exhausted on the ground. Pillows
tossed about, in the wake of the deed done.
The dimming light, a halo soon to run
out, a banging on the door, shouting for quiet.
A consequence of tactless merrymaking.
A giggle avalanching to explosive, hysterical fits.
As we laid in bed gasping out of breath,
our skins still touching, our sweat mixing
with the wetness of kisses and everything else
we’ve let out. We smile in the midst of sin.
Wen the light died down, and the feathers settled,
I look again at the angel I’ve corrupted.
Flipped Serendipity 