Out of the Wastelands

Luisa A. Igloria

It has been a long time since I believed
wholly in the benevolence of angels

or of gods— at least, the kind pictured in clean
smocks, with pale, unblemished skin and haloes

of unearthly light. I say unearthly because they
bear no trace of the blight of our earth, no soot-

stains, no recent images of floodwaters still
roiling in their eyes. I wonder if they know 

what a food desert is, or if their fingers
have ever touched a milkweed frond

or grazed the wings of migrating monarchs.
The Angel of History, on the other hand,

is whipped to a frenzy by a great wind.
His garments are in shreds, but he shows

how to sift through the rubble of everything
that once was shiny and new or came with

insurance or a lifetime guarantee. It is no use crying,
and it is no use saying if only. But you can fish 

garbage out of the water, tend to the plants
and trees confused by the weather. It isn’t enough

to point out the broken. Out of the wastelands, how
do we salvage the seeds and pieces that are still of use?