BESTIARY FOR THE FINGERS OF MY RIGHT HAND
Charles Simic
1
Thumb, loose tooth of a horse.
Rooster to his hens.
Horn of a devil. Fat worm
They had attached to my flesh
At the time of my birth.
It takes four to hold him down,
Bend him in half, until the bone
Begins to whimper.
Cut him off. He can take care
Of himself. Take root in the earth,
Or go hunting with wolves.
2
The second points the way.
True way. The path crosses the earth,
the moon and some stars.
Watch he points further.
He points to himself.
3
The middle one has backache.
Stiff, still unaccustomed to his life;
An old man at birth. It's about something
That he had and lost,
That he looks for within my hand,
The way a dog looks
For fleas
With a sharp tooth.
4
The fourth is mystery.
Sometimes as my hand
Rest on the table
He jumps by himself
As though someone called his name.
After each bone, finger,
I come to him troubled.
5
Something stirs in the fifth
Something perpetually at the point
Of birth. Weak and submissive,
His touch is gentle.
It weighs a tear.
It takes the mote out of the eye.
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