—after So Long A Letter by Mariama Bâ

A giant throbbing blob of eyeballs hovers
at my front door, long wings flapping,
fat gooey tears dripping, soaking
my welcome mat.

May I come in?

I want to scream and run away
but what would my mother think,
her good and faithful Christian
daughter fleeing from God?

I invite the angel inside.

When I return to the dining room
my hands shake so bad they make
the cups of tea I carry splash, tinkling.

The angel’s pupils all look
at their tea cup, baffled.

I feel so stupid.

Angels don’t have mouths.

Your guardian angel
has killed herself.

All I can do is blink.
I was not expecting this.
“I beg your pardon?” I ask.

I am sorry to tell you this.

“But—how? Why?”

Yes. Why?

The angel’s pupils dart around
my house: the unwashed clothes
piled on the sofa, the litter box
reeking, my tangled hair,
all the dust.

Why indeed.

For a moment, we are silent.

“What does this mean?”

This means your soul
will soon be exposed
to demonic forces.
And you will die.

“What?!”

Yes.

“I—no, no—I mean,
can’t you bring her back?”

Lidless, yet I swear
the angel’s eyes all squint.

That is not how this works.

“But I don’t understand.”

Thank you for the tea.

Abruptly, the angel hovers away
leaving a trail of ooze. They slam
through the closed front door,
shattering it to pieces.

“Wait!” I yell, following.

I must be going.

The angel ascends
via holy light.

Like a true sinner, I plead,
“Please! I don’t wanna die!”

Exasperated, the angel spins
around to face me, scowling
down at me from the clouds.

Lady, death is just
as beautiful
as life
has been.

[Editor's note: You can click here to read Seth Wade's accompanying essay, a part of our criticism special.]