Pinkyless: A Poem

I’ve been away for so long, wordpress! Here’s a weird little poem about who knows what from the back of my brain to the disturbance of yours. Enjoy and happy weekend!

 

My mother cut my finger off

when I was six years old.

 

It wasn’t painful.

I don’t remember screaming or

crying or even being upset.

I just remember a thud and splat

as the finger fell to the floor

and splashed the white linoleum 

speckles of spectacular red

ruby jewels amidst pearly white

and my right pinky a pale paisley 

pointing towards the window

where a blueberry pie cooled.

 

My mother had cut my finger off

and my father wasn’t home

and she was standing over it

immobile, the knife pressed

slanted between her fingers

which were still on her hand

because it was my finger

she had cut off.

 

I’m not bitter.

It wasn’t painful.

I don’t remember screaming or

crying or even being upset.

I don’t remember my father coming 

home and bringing me to the hospital.

I don’t remember the doctor telling me

the finger couldn’t be reattached

without the finger.

But I’m not bitter.

I was six and she was sick

and her laughter made the pain feel better.

And my pain made her pain feel better.

And it didn’t occur to me

to think that it was strange

for her to say, “I’m hungry,”

and cut off my finger

for a new pie.

A pinky pie.

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