‘there: a sleeping angel curled upon the grass with his hair sprawled. pale flowers over an unknowing body, bedsheets that you pull. and there: an orchard of pomegranates near you both. henna and nard, nard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon, every kind of incense tree, with myrrh, and spices. paprika. the sleeping angel with a rosy, full mouth, inviting, as air skitters in and out. there: his eyes flutter and the angel stretches all his limbs. you tell him say your name. lucifer. no. that can’t be, because i am lucifer. eyes of gold meeting eyes of gold.’
