Are you an angel,
I asked a nurse, in crisp uniform,
waking up tied to a bed after suffering delirium tremens.
She smiled this irritating smirk nuns wear
when visiting the dying,
this annoying, cloying smile worn by earthly angels
who stay by my bedside,
but refuse to come near enough for me to touch
their virginal knockers
or inhale the fragrance of their glowing skin.
Hope you are not my dear,
real angels are sexless and clean,
but absence of sin makes them boring.
Do you know, perhaps you do,
but I’ll tell you anyway:
if Jesus hadn’t in temper,
chased money lenders out of the temple
and if he hadn’t doubted God
when he, on the cross, whispered.
‘Father, why did you forsake me?’
He would have been quite forgotten now,
or made guest appearances as a glossy,
but minor cherub, in children’s books.