The Archaeology of Archangels 
 
This is the first in a series of stanzas that 
Ordinarily would be sleeping if we (the
Archangels) hadn’t woken up in swimsuits.
 
By the time you read this, I will be Queen.
 
ø
 
The Archaeology of Fashion 
 
I hate the smell of chiffon.
 
I can’t help but think of you, 
All the time keeping an eye inward, 
As if you were a frog. 
 
ø
 
The Archaeology of War
 
If there are two men producing nothing, 
It is guaranteed one
Will eventually die of grief.
 
Every guerrilla has a glowstick 
To guide us in the night. 
 
ø
 
The Archaeology of Doris Day
 
Each day the girl in the clown suit 
Two-steps to inclement weather. 
 
The ponderosa pine, it is said, is the only tree 
That has ever had sex with God. 
 
ø
 
The Archaeology of Matches
 
Sometimes the boys in the mosque 
Play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. 
 
There are all kinds of occasions for faux art—
The way it imitates faux life,  
Like a pair of dunce caps. 
 
ø
 
The Archaeology of War 2
 
I was turquoise once, said my face to the other face 
Beating itself against the windshield.
 
On the other side, the flip 
Side, the girl in the striper dress 
Saluted the other side with a glowstick. 
 
ø
 
The Archaeology of Water
 
In pajamas no one is safe. 
 
Before she could talk, she shot
Pool. And before that, she
Sucked liquor from a pistil.
 
ø
 
The Archaeology of Celibacy
 
What does eyesight have to do 
With myopia, she said, 
Winking.
 
She said: Taffeta is a sign of celibacy 
When worn by Queens.