When the Angel Came

As the Angel of Death approaches, he is terrible,
but when he arrives
he is bliss.
         -Islamic saying

When the angel came, he smiled
and chopped my hand off.

For days I held my bloodless stump,
longing to see my missing fingers
bend again around a doorknob,
a bar of soap,
my pen.

When I met friends, I held out my arm
and found where I once could offer the warm pad of my palm
I had nothing.

I cursed the angel -- his bright hair, his silver lips, and the beautiful
arc his sword had made
as it fell on my waiting wrist.
At night I lay, eyes open, my one hand clenched
and planned the next time we would meet.
I kept knives within reach, imagined with satisfaction
how I would slash his perfect skin, carve away his nose, his eyes.

Then, like the sun coming up above the nearest hill,
he appeared, his hands as bright as red hot chunks of steel.
And the anger washed from my body.
And as he walked toward me -- the flame of his sword
swinging easily at his side --
my good arm reached helplessly toward him.