I am terrified they will take my arms from me. "Don't be terrified. Your brain will sleep. Your eyes won't see." I am terrified the devil will force me to look at the tongs red from the fire, and the hook. "Scientifically speaking, your death will be pleasant. A ceremony in heaven. Only the soul is present." But I am terrified they will take my arms away. My hands, my balance, need them. Without my arms I cannot play. "I have never heard such tedious talk of limbs. You are God-approved. Your soul is yours. It pleasantly bends. In the afterlife you will feel nothing. Things like arms will be unreal." I lived on my elbow with my index finger resting on my lip as I read Shakespeare. My arms knew of my fingers' soft grip. I could bring people things with my arms. My legs would repeat the swaying of my arms which swayed to and fro down to the mimicking of my feet. I cannot know myself otherwise. Tell me justice is divine, not destructive or odd. I love my arms. I reach out. I need my arms. Tell God.
