Locked Doors

For the angels who inhabit this town, although their shape constantly changes, each night we leave some cold potatoes and a bowl of milk on the windowsill. Usually they inhabit heaven where, by the way, no tears are allowed. They push the moon around like a boiled yam. The Milky Way is their hen with her many children. When it is night the cows lie down but the moon, that big bull, stands up. However, there is a locked room up there with an iron door that can't be opened. It has all your bad dreams in it. It is hell. Some say the devil locks the door from the inside. Some say the angels lock it from the outside. The people inside have no water and are never allowed to touch. They crack like macadam. They are mute. They do not cry help except inside where their hearts are covered with grubs. I would like to unlock that door, turn the rusty key and hold each fallen one in my arms but I cannot, I cannot. I can only sit here on earth at my place at the table.