For Emily Anne Hall, 1983-2021

I misremember “angel” as “angle” on purpose
in confusing memoriam. In confusion, I recall
my friend, placing her on Earth.

Hey Em: I’m afraid of angles, I’m a friend
of angels, afraid of friends.
Mostly, I’m afraid of angels, friends,

hands folding under grasping hands.
Were I a complementary sort
I would complement the angels.

Were I angelic
I would fold into an angle
no one could befriend.

I’m a friend of angels.
That is, I call on them: DO NOT bring me into the fold.
The call never makes me feel better.

That is how I know they are friends.
But I’m aligned with Emily:
as an angle, a bit of circle,

she sees the other bits of circle,
gleams tidy, knowing–
hiding in a gaze angling for a gaze.

Emily’s going to help me misremember
the words hiding in the folds of my brain
until remembering feels luckier, angular.

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