“If I Fail to be an Angel in the Next Life…”
Let me be the fruit bat. The largest flying mammal on the planet. A creature that prefers to gnaw off the bearings of south pacific canopy than drain the blood of unsuspecting flesh. Gentle giant flying through pre-monsoon sky, roaming through the valleys in search of sustenance, before a wave and a whirlwind rip apart its body. A downgraded Icarus, fighting the limitations of ominous clouds and foreboding signs of catastrophe. Still flying against the current, when the wind tells it not to. I’m not trying to make a fool of my gods; I just believe in myself enough to persevere.
Let me be the albatross. A seaside raptor with a python-length wingspan. Constantly canonized as the divine consequence, befallen onto the pennant of every wicked deed by every wicked man. However, I’m no one’s allegory, never sought to be a holy spirit of vengeance. Never sought to be someone else’s god of judgment. I’m just a looming shadow cast above the rough and tumble North Atlantic seas. Trying to do what I need to in order to survive.
Let me be the hummingbird. An unbridled symbol of free spirit. My body moves like a gyroscope. My wings are small now, but still filled with the same bloom as the flowers I feed upon. Nectar fuels my shrill-wing whistles, dilates eyes that reflect like a pair of moon-glow magic 8balls. A wandering jubilee shaping beauty in the motion of its presence. My home resembles the tall tales of Eden from long ago. What humanity calls a garden; I call sanctuary.
Let me be the Dragonfly. A creature of underestimated grace. Soaring through a skyline of water lilies and pickerel at speeds that would make the lightning jealous. A swan of the insect kingdom perching upon the ends of each marsh-grown blossom, like an indecisive emperor trying to find the right throne. However, I’m the heir to a short lifespan, and an array of carnivores who’d love nothing but to see me devoured. However, short life or not, I’ll be damned if I let my limitations turn this blessing into a burden.
Let me be the Sugar Glider. An adorable fluff of confusing biology. Fooling others into thinking I can fly once I open these flaps of fur. Yet I am merely carried, cradled by the wind. My body is a vessel whisked like a sheet of paper airplane, drifting in the air until landing isn’t an option, but a necessity.
Maybe this idea is just another ancient lie, passed onto generations before logic dictated the stars in our night and the roots underneath our trees. When our lives were guided by dreams.
Even if there is another life after this, and this isn’t a dream. Even if my next carnation won’t be a herald wreathed in heavenly delights. Even if I fail to be an angel in the next life: let me at least find the next best alternative.
Jared Benjamin
J.B. Stone is a neurodivergent slam poet, writer and reviewer from Brooklyn, NY now residing in Buffalo, NY. He is the author of the Micro Chapbook, A Place Between Expired Dreams And Renewed Nightmares and Reviews Editor at Coffin Bell Journal and the Founding Editor/Reviews Editor at Variety Pack. His work has appeared in Peach Mag, Occulum, Glass, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere. You can find more of his work at jaredbenjaminstone.com
Twitter: @JB_StoneTruth