A finger can be something beautiful, something that strokes

piano keys and bandages children’s wounds,

something that contains the entire emotion of a single human being

in its joints. Or it can be a device for turning the body

inside out, like a rag doll that is split open with a seam ripper

to remove the surplus stuffing.

If math has anything to do with this, I could multiply

23 by 7 five times and still not get any close

to the number of times I have ripped ripped myself apart,

like Moses parting the Red Sea.