To Lucifer

​And you, most beautiful of all god’s
angels, formed from the first rib
of sunlight to break the black
breathlessness of space--
what are we to make of your falling
like a star out of heaven,
crushed under the heel of Michael,
the heel of Mary, and made to twist
along on your shingled belly
as if you were less than the dirt 
we toss out of our gardens
because it is too heavy
with its freight of clay--
as if it can be blamed for being
what it is, as if the seed of rebellion
had not been planted 
behind your amber eyes as, later, 
the shame of nakedness would be
gleaned from the flesh of an apple.
The first sin was neither pride nor
disobedience, but the invention
of agency, which granted us choice--
and so you chose, who were our first light.