Does it matter if the angel in my dream was of celestial seraphim;
or was Mary; or Mommy; or my own earthly mother showing me things
I had already known but refused to acknowledge?

The woman I met the day I tried to confess knew nothing of mass times
or reconciliation, she knew only to pray and to change daily the flowers
on our mother’s crown, in her hands, and at her feet.

You, who have kissed the concrete soles of a thousand angels and washed them
and tried to lift their skirts, and cheered too when they came crashing from their pedestals, carried by momentum, flying briefly.

And my own hand, now almost as comfortable putting a five dollar bill
in the collection basket on Sunday as it is putting five singles in the hands
of a drag queen on Saturday. Almost.

My wife’s sister’s wife tells me “only you can define your queerness,”
but I often think the opposite; I have no say but to circle the throne
crying out “Holy Holy Holy”

Oh star of Bethlehem or Manhattan or San Francisco,
take my hand and lead me home.

Adam is a Cuban-American poet residing in Central Virginia; a seafarer on merchants ships; and the Managing Editor at samfiftyfour literary journal. His work has recently been featured in Prosetrics, Fourth River, Rill & Grove, and On The High Literary Magazine. He was selected as a finalist for the 2025 Arts & Letters Rumi Prize for Poetry and has been nominated for Best New Poets.