Our pastor talks about cherubim on Easter
Sunday. Cherubim, you say, like little angel
babies, like cupid with his arrows, like paintings
by Michaelangelo. When we look
it up, we find out that cherubim guard
the gates of Eden, protecting
paradise from you and me.
The condom breaks. Thin latex
stretches, shatters statistics:
97 percent effective when used properly.
We should have stuck to the variety
pack of twelve, but the box claimed these
were as close to skin as we would come.
That night I dream of babies
with four faces, beaks shrieking
as they swoop from the sky to swallow
me, their lion’s manes tangled
with flames, their flapping wings covered
in hundreds of unblinking eyes.