“Oh, you’re an angel,” Oprah said simply, when
I rested the glass of ice on the Egyptian linen.
As if I could stretch to the sky like a Judas tree,
as if a message was mixed in the lead A. H. Heisey
wineglass: the gathering of waters She called seas.
An entire globe of ocean: plankton, algae, craw-
fish, and treasure, an answer swimming in Her maw,
truth’s great potion. How beautiful I felt then, in my
alabaster blouse, wrinkled dress slacks, and dry,
sensible black shoes, to resemble an angel.
And in the glass, I swore I saw Oprah scull
then glide on an improvised raft of sliced lemon,
a knife for an oar.