Short Talk on Pink
I was fond of the angels. Sky-blue light blew around them wherever they were. The one gave no trouble, lounging quiet in his corner of the fresco, I nodded to him when I went up the stairs. The other had temperament. Stalking the salons, trailing folds of cloud or bloody sunset, making a show. It vexed my father, oh it vexed him. The sound of wings fanning and closing downstairs made him grind his teeth. Father was not a patient man. Still, I was shocked to hear mad cries from the basement one day and went to look. Who knew you could melt angels down, with a hag torch perhaps, or that they turn pink? I had nothing to say, my emotions all over the place, but the weirdest part, as they melted they seemed to devolve down the ages: first heavenly beings, then prehistoric birds, then regular seagulls, then bipedal humans walking away, then glass. They just walked away into glass. Why does everyone look so much more lonely from the back?
~Anne Carson