All of the Etiquette

The cherubim look like

bullet holes

against the sun as they fly away.
Before the light, his

translucent skin

glows red, revealing the skeleton
inside him.
His eyes are frosty,
but the sun is ineffective and
bends away.
The walls of his prison
are fashioned from the bones of

furious mothers

and held together by translation.

You blow in
from another place and time,
a painted city with fickle headlines,
stockings rolled down,
brawls and bloody hands.

A delicate smile is tweaking
at the corner of your lips.

Immaculate snowflakes twinkle and fall –
an excuse to share the heat.

The cherubs look like

bullet holes

against the sun, their tiny wings
beating frantically
as they migrate to more temperate places.
Before the light, his

translucent skin

glows red, revealing the skeleton
inside him.
His eyes are frosty,
but the sun is ineffective and
bends away.
The walls of his prison
are fashioned from the bones of

furious mothers

and held together by translation.