When I was young and didn't have the sense
God gave a crabapple, I put my hand
through the bars of the cat cage at the zoo
and drew back one finger fewer, the bite
so quick and relatively clean that I
had to count my digits twice before I
felt that I was less than I should be.
But there's more. Now I count in base nine, not
ten--it's the hand I use for everything:
writing, throwing, scratching. Etc.
Plus I think I've still too many fingers
--four's a handful, and I don't miss the one
I fed the tiger, nor the bones within.
I've adapted, proving, in a way, that
Lamarck was right. I'll have a child
and prove him wrong, however: he'll arrive
with four fingers and a thumb, and I'll breathe
More's the pity--he looks just like his mother.
If I could lose a sin as easily,
have some creature cleanly clip it off, why,
I'd throw myself into that lion's den
and offer up the bad that makes me me.
But I'm not sure that there are predators
enough to bite me back to what I pray
to be, a modicum of purity
if only I could serve them without shaking.
