by Brett Rutherford
I watched an old man
confront an unfamiliar
soup. The color off,
the scent of spice
was not a familiar one,
the broth of what animal
boiled from bone, who knew?
When no one looked, he
tentatively touched
the not-quite-steaming
surface with finger three,
left hand, known since
the Middle Ages
as the line to the heart,
able to test for poison
or spoiled meat; one dab,
and the inner voice
said yea or nay.
Rings we put here
for safe-keeping,
silver and gold
in the Sun’s keeping.
The finger first
we use to point
was once the archer’s
best friend, bow-
pulling scite-finger.
Now we merely indicate
with it, imperative,
finger of Jove.
Of the long finger,
the impudent one,
the less said, the better.
Unsleeping Saturn
in Tartarus rules it,
and disconnected ones
are sometimes seen
scaling a trellis
to annoy some virgin.
Almost forgotten,
the little digit, is said,
if raised, to fortell
bad weather, but more
than not, it serves
to clean the ear of wax.
As for the thumb,
unruly, brute, and
lascivious, wise men
and alchemists assign
it to the rule of Venus.
Fingers fine and agile:
if they play Bach, and type
without your looking,
who knows what they do
while you are sleeping,
or even if the ones
you wake with are the ones
you went to bed with
the night before?
