On every counter and beside                  the entertainment center,space is claimed by little wings plucking harps.                  Trumpets leading                  an unknown charge of credit cards.Boy knows heaven and its angels live                  in his home and aren’t charged rent.                  He cleans the faces of angelsto be closer to figuras.                  To steal their breathto simulate their worth.Every Sunday he wipes down bookshelf altars                  asking white candle for permission.                  When lit, boy anoints their feet to bereminded of words not often uttered.They speak in minimalism,                  this is their design casting shadows                  on a picture frame’s upper lip.                  He thinks himself into creationism:from-factory, to-check, to-store, to-home.A mom to always swallow pennies like pills,                  counting them all in the bank account                  of her bellyso boy answers to these tchotchkes                  because angels breed more angels.Boy reimagines her prized figurine                  from first communion                  with its beady cherubim eye.A lure, the circumferencing                  of a thrift store halogen lightshining on more porcelain dust collectors.And he thought he heard it say,                                        she made me once                                                          or                                                    she is one of us.