At night your halo creates noise, dissension among the stars, constant news with a smile. Bats whistle around it. Crickets warn of your coming. I hear you as though from a great distance, broadcasting the gossip of chipmunks, bling jangling, scandals of sexy hummingbirds, chanteuses baring their bums, commercials for Leviathan, news of a new seaweed, a new killer with a dark tale, a perfume that stinks like rotting gingko leaves and lasts until morning. “Angels go way back,” you tell me “and the halo has evolved into a miraculous piece of technology, ultra efficient: The halo never lies.”

Now your halo floats above me, blinking on and off. Cable channels tile, screens burst into fuzz. The power goes out. How does one cosy up to a nimbus, chilly to the touch? “Get it removed,” I say “before the National Grid finds out you exist and sends you a bill.”


Luca Penne
Luca Penne works as a carpenter when he can find work, lives in New Hampshire, and has published his prose poems in various magazines including 2River View, Forge, Heroin Love Songs, Milk, and so on.