Poem: I Don't Want Raphael's Angel

Angels are created in heaven but rendered by the minds of artists and poets. My version of an angel reflects my Philly background and gritty nature. I prefer my angels earthy with more realistic expectations, instead of the ideal versions that Raphael and Michelangelo have created in their art. I want my angel accessible instead of ethereal. In the poem, I Don't Want Raphael's Angel, I say goodbye to perfection and hello to flaws and impurity.

I don’t want my angel

soft and demure

with translucent wings or a halo.

I don’t want her riding bareback like Lady Godiva

or as sophisticated as Lady Chatterley.

I want her to be excited to see me

with outstretched arms and a bottle of beer,

plain and dowdy, unfettered and free

with rollers in her untamed hair.

I want her to be funny and profane,

a well-endowed, zaftig angel

wearing nothing but a grin

and a closeout pair of fur-lined slippers

from Marshalls or Filene’s Basement.

I want my angel to be riding

a two-door Ford Pinto

with a pack of smokes on the dash,

a pipe with hash under the seat,

barely making it up the hill

in a cough and sputter.

I don’t want Raphael’s angel

or a Michelangelo

with a surreal, sublime pallor.

I don’t want society’s perfect seraphim,

a holy protector and intercessor,

but a cherub who’s not afraid to break rules,

now and then.