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.

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