Year of Body Armor

Jesse De Angelis

There should be more to say as the storm comes in
on the doppler radar, color-coded for rain and snow.
There aren’t as many geese flying down the page anymore.


Now I sell personal protective equipment to people
with money plus guns. Our thoughts go out
begins what I write. Later, Remember,


body armor saves livesWhat do I want to see
in a movie, besides some of the dead coming back to life?
Revenge, and/or attractive people executing


a complicated plan. I eat the free food left out
in the office kitchen. I go back, write the user manual
for the government’s needle-proof search gloves.




Conference Call. Outside the window, a possum
splits open the salon’s garbage. A starling
gathers the hair for a nest. This conference room


is named for a river. They’re all rivers. On the lawns
of the other office towers, lines of baby turkeys
follow their mothers. The building warns us


there’s a fisher cat cornered in the parking garage.
Past that, there’s a man selling cards with the alphabet
printed in sign language. There’s an entrepreneur


walk of fame. A shoe floats in the fountain.
Under that, someone’s reading I caught this morning
morning’s minion on the Orange Line.


The train exhales. Evil is real.
Shove it, make it drop its phone.

About the Work

Jesse De Angelis

Jesse De Angelis lives in Boston and is a poetry editor for The Adroit Journal. Recent poems have appeared in Best New Poets, The Kenyon Review, and Storm Cellar.

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