I am not an ascended being.

Acrylic on canvas

If I were an ascended being, free of bones and skin,
my heart spread wide and blossoming,
rocketing across the ocean with a robe of rainbows and thunder in my throat -
I'd squander it.
I'd take my celestial gaze down, my third, luminous eye ripped open
to scan the phone records of your past,
looking for the moment your life went skidding sideways.
I do not love you, but I have loved you mightily.
Formlessly.
I have kneeled before the altar of it, beautiful one,
and watched you laid out on the table.
It doesn't matter now. There's a plague.
There is no end in sight. Each day, I pray with the children
that we be patient with one another. They lay warm hands on my knees.
We are not patient.
There's a protocol to attend to. Masks. Groceries. Gloves.
The washing of hands.
An evening walk to avoid the people and smell fresh air.
We practice standing on our heads and read novels.
It's all wonderfully exhausting.
If we ever emerge, we'll be so tender we might break at the slightest touch.
Every day, people die.
The children dig for worms.
I am an impatient teacher, but a diligent worker.

It's not quite like disappearing, but you couldn't tell the difference

even if you were trying.