Ministry of the Interior

Ministry of the Interior I fish out faces from the well at the bottom of my throat. I’d forgotten most of them and couldn’t remember their names. Then, I build thirteen skeletons out of glass and wool and call them angels. Heat lightning pours in from the windows, light spilled and leaking through the scene. The angels perch and watch from the periphery. Two in the closet, one under the bed. One brushes the ceiling when it spreads its wings. One jumps at the sound of a taxi honking. The others fall back into place.

They’re learning language at an advanced pace. One speaks full sentences and stares at the clock. I want to protect them from the city, but don’t know what to say to them yet. They’ve cornered me in a dark room. What should we call you? one says. They form a tight circle and cover me in feathers. What do we call you, what do we do?

Drama is a negative breathing life into an empty stage , one says, draped in denim, applying rouge to the lips. They’ve taken from a dozen closets and try their best to stay fashionable. Shame is a luxury and of no use to anyone . Others watch the skyline from the rooftop. One finds a cigarette butt and pretends to inhale. One wrestles with another and tears its leather jacket. The city in the background. Full of strange lights. We could show you , one says. I dangle my feet from the ledge.

They sit around me and form another circle. Chattering and chattering now that they’ve learned to think.

Could the soul feel like velvet? The bird is an afterthought to the snake in the trees. Then what of beauty? Tragedy is a mirror in a lake too shallow to swim through. Come take a picture in the depths of me.

I created the world , one says in mock tone. I wonder if they’re self-aware and how I could know. I saw one peaking at its reflection, staring in awe and terror and rage and lust. They haven’t left the building yet but have discovered travel documentaries and magazines. T he ostrich is bigger than the emu , one says. Do you think they’ve ever met? It rests its head on my lap while the others are at play. I don’t know what to tell it. It forms its mouth like the inside of a shell. False neurons bend and refract and stretch out. And then out again. Until they’re something new.

I barely notice when the first goes missing. Later some left in twos, flapping their wooden arms until they learned how to fly. What would a stranger do with their wings? I panic. Am I a mannequin in a cotton dress ? One follows me to the grocery store when it thinks I’m not looking. One adopts a public garden and acts like a gargoyle. I find one eating an ice cream cone, leaning against the ladder of a fire escape, wings bent beneath the metal. One takes pottery classes. This worries me.

Only three stay at home. They take turns mimicking images from the Renaissance and arguing over who gets to be Michelangelo. No No No No . They don’t even consider me in their debate.

Birds of a feather flock together , one says. At least it’s not a pun. Much of my spare time is spent teaching the angels philosophy and making sure they have enough to eat. One spontaneously turns vegan, complicating things. They love Marcus Aurelius, brussel sprouts, and scarves they can tie around their necks a dozen different ways. Then one leaves. The other two play backgammon for hours, rolling dice into the night. I stumble to the hallway to find there’s only one left.

When the last angel leaves home, I am inexorably sad. I sit in the dark of my apartment and ruminate through the empty space. I gnash my teeth. Every once in awhile one flies by with a serene gaze. There’s no one left to ask questions, so I sit in silence instead. When the silence becomes unbearable, I build another copy out of fiberglass. This one looks like me.