Angels Drink Their Whisky Neat

It’s possible
I became human
by a divine bender—

a tipsy slip
of God’s hand
and I’m less

six wings,
the ability to sing
on key, an eye

for the perfect
opportunity.
In a moment

of excess,
I was water-
cut and fitted 

with these clumsy
digits reaching
only as high

as the lowest shelf
of my father’s
liquor cabinet.

And, yet, I grab
at the Crown
Royal and every bit

of a binge.
What’s the point
of a flawless liver

if he’s serving
seraphim top-shelf
scotch, the cherubim

ageless bourbon
from charred oak casks?
No one is blessing

the poor in spirit
or those thirsting
for a generous pour.

Even now, I bet
the heavenly host
rests on a cloud duvet

sleeping it off—
breath heavy
with holiness.