“One two three four five
five fingers to a hand”

said the blind boy counting,
but he found a sixth one
waiting like a cousin for a coin;
a budlike node complete with nail,
phalanx, and mole

under the usual casual opposable thumb.

“One two three four five
five fingerspans for a woman’s blouse,”

said the muslin-weaver spanning
but he found his span shorter by a thumb:
a puckered stump, sewn like a sausage head
by a barber, without a nail
phalanx or rice-grain line,

instead of the usual casual opposable thumb.

Said my granny, rolling her elephant leg
like a log in a ruined mill:

“One two three four five
five princes in a forest
each one different like the fingers on a hand,”
and we always looked to find on her paw
just one finger left of five: a real thumb,
no longer usual, casual, or opposable after her husband’s

knifing temper one sunday morning half a century ago.