Sometimes I think I know
how a Nephilim feels,
sitting on the rafters of a church,
never quite belonging to sin or salvation.

Wings coated dusty mauve, or even dove grey,
I am the halfling,
the changeling,
the woman who walks among two worlds—
never quite belonging to either.

Perhaps that is my place:
to hold the line,
to dance among the twisted trees of Limbo,
and read them pieces of Shakespeare and Bradbury and Plath.

Somehow, I think they would appreciate it.
I know I would.