Bean Point Requiem
Patrick Trombly
September 1, 2025. Our bicycles are chained to the rack at the end of Gladiolus Street. No word yet on the swimmer who was carried out by the riptide last night.
It is mid-tide. I stand waist deep, bobbing in gentle undulation, half blinded by the bursting sun. Royal terns glide swiftly above – blurs of white against a background of lapis lazuli. They shriek, as if possessed. Further out, a rescue boat returns slowly.
White wings in flight bathe in wind and sunlight. White winged angels sing that all things will be made right.
White wings in flight carry sharp eyes squinting, seeking glints of silver light amid the green turbulence below. These are angels of death, clad in deceit – not honest gray, like the ugly birds who feed only on decay.
Effortlessly they swim with the wind, soaring past, then circling back. These graceful foils, one-by-one, spread fully and float, and then suddenly
drop – pluck – ascend,
one of the angels, still white, almost dry, is fed. The next angel follows:
drop – pluck – ascend.
Another small soul has been removed from the bay's edge where the waters meet.
The waters this morning are turgid from the rain that came overnight. This gives the death angels cover to dive and pluck souls at will, first one, then another, then another:
drop – pluck – ascend.
The rest of the school will not remember. This is a gift that saves them from living in terror of the diving diviners, and of guessing the guesses after the losses.
Why him from among many? Why him? He was too young. He was too loved.
The currents also pluck. But we remember. And we guess. And we question.
We do not live in terror. We live in hope, because we think we hear the singing of angels.
Patrick Trombly
Patrick Trombly re-emerged as a publishing poet in 2025. Representative publishers include The Closed Eye Open, The Dewdrop, Loch Raven Review, The Argyle, The Abstractionist, Beyond Words, Resonance, Connecticut River Review, PHIL LIT Journal and Amethyst Review.