Bald Angels

I thought you said
“Some of us have taken off our wings”

You said “wigs”.
I misheard,
Or you misspoke.

Thought we were talking about angels.

But you were talking nappy heads covered —
shrouded —
In synthetics.

We are all bald angels.

With stubby wings, bloodied.
Scalps give way to traction

Alopecia.

A part of me longs to hear their crying.
Stranger’s screaming mimmicking my dying.

“Try flying”,
Try being my bald angel.

Mournin’