Atlas and Alice, Issue 20
Avra Margariti
Thing with Feathers The angel you caught in your net won’t stop shedding. You gather the feathers from the cracks between floorboards. They stick to the walls, wet with bitter hope and golden ichor. You think you will stuff and sew them into a pillow. You will have the sweetest dreams. Cheer up, you tell the angel. Aren’t you grateful I caught you in my net? You were falling, you know? The angel blinks at you owlishly. Was I? You landed on my lawn, you reply. Practically in my lap. The angel doesn’t laugh. They watch old black-and-white shows in front of your television. Films where couples sleep apart in twin beds, under comforters embroidered with ivy and ferns. Where housewives wear polka-dotted dresses with puffy sleeves and hems, and carry casserole dishes as if they’re lighter than the steam they emit. The housewives stay behind while their spouses grab leather briefcases, go to work. They kiss in the doorway. You watch the angel practice kissing on the back of their hand. They have such sharp little teeth. Every vintage dress you buy for them, they tear to shreds. It’s nice that the angel is practicing how to be good for you, you think. But when you leave the house, they don’t even tell you goodbye. Never even look in your direction. Only watch the television, the window. When you bring the angel takeout, they gulp it down without chewing. Their spiderling fingers make origami clouds out of the greasy paper. Their nails are growing swiftly, like a newborn’s. Later, you find the regurgitated pellets. When you pull them apart with the tip of your pocketknife, they glint with half-digested anti-matter. Your migraine lingers for hours, strange lights flashing behind your eyelids. Serendipitous, you tell the angel once your fever cools. Our meeting was serendipitous. 50
