Underneath the Skin

Free hands touch the wall, laughter
deep where the waters land and pool,
the wall holding you up and away.

Where do the angels go when you give
in? Do they gather in the wet spots
and mildew the bones? Do they conspire?

Take a deep breath and hold it, pushing,
shoulder against the wall. You get no help
here, a bit more laughter, but no water.

If you sleep, you’re gone, off to Indiana
where marketers swarm at the base of mirror-
covered buildings, telling lousy secrets.

The angels turn to larva underneath the skin,
eating their way up the arm to your heart.

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Rob Spiegel is a journalist who lives in New Mexico and writes poems and fiction.