My Hand by Tricia Marcella Cimera

One morning I woke up to find my hand

had become the Hand of God; I was overjoyed.

I reached into the sky and grabbed a plane

on a very bad mission and set it down in a field.

No, you must not do that, I said to the pilot.  I

had to say it several more times, sternly, with

other planes —  cars and trucks too.  I plucked

and crushed the guns out of the tiny hands of some

soldiers.  No, don’t shoot guns, I said.  Don’t hurt

your fellow humans.  Don’t kill babies.  Stop it.

I had to do it again, again and again with soldiers

and civilians alike throughout the long and terrible

day.  So much so that I got angry and my Hand

began clenching, clenching but I managed to stop

myself from killing them all — the fucking fools,

the idiots, the whole goddamned world — before

the sun had set.  I prayed to have my hand back

and the next day it was.            ……….All I can do now

is shake my fist.

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