Headless Angel

Bill Brown

My wife tried to glue the head

back on, but it’s concrete and keeps

falling off. The cat tries to roll it around

the porch floor. We bought it for

the garden to honor our dead mothers,

but when the head fell off, we couldn’t—

so it sits with the uneven chipped neck,

kneeling with little hands folded

in prayer, wings nestled on its back.

I thought to bury her, but can’t.

My mother used to quote, angels from

above watch over those we love.

This morning I put the head on a garden brick

so it can watch tulips bloom. I place

a cap on it to shield eyes from the sun.

I’m beginning to like this new version

of Winged Victory, tiny headless child.

My wife painted its toenails bright red,

its wings, purple. Calvin said everyone

of us has thousands of angels attending,

but give me this little concrete beauty,

her head among flowers, her squat form

always in prayer.

Bill Brown is the author of ten poetry collections and a textbook. New work appears or is forthcoming in Tar River, Atlanta Review, Potomac Review, Worcester Review, Evening Street Review, Cumberland River Review, Louisville Review, Southern Poetry Review, and Columbia University Journal, among others.