the day my stepfather cut his thumb
off, he walked into the garden
where my mother was dead-heading the Little Lulus
asked her to help him find it in the sawdust below
the half-built planter he was making for her marigolds
in the workshop, blood red as litmus in acid
soaked into sawdust, ends of mahogany, cherry wood, teak
the end of a calloused thumb winter-red and split
mom picked it up, placed it in a Ziploc
drove him to the hospital, still calm, he kept
asking about her flowers, his hand held over his head
wrapped in the old tea towel she had been wearing over her shoulder
he misses that thumb
used it to button the jacket of his
Hitler Jugend uniform as a boy of ten
used it to carry his meager belongings to the ship
bound for Canada after Bremen was destroyed by the Allies
after he swore never to speak of that uniform again
he doesn’t feel like finishing the planter
sometimes he thinks the thumb is still there
and it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch especially
with a sudden change in barometric pressure
his inertia spills into lunch
my mother shelters him from points of knives
offers to butter his bread
her hovering badgers him
into silence he cracks the angry stump
against faucets and corners
during Scrabble, we challenge him on his use of Kairo
my mother argues that he can’t play a German word
I defy him to find it in any of the six
dictionaries strewn about the kitchen table
besides, the point is moot
as no place names are allowed
flaps of sutured skin open fresh
as he fumbles against the edges
of the dictionary looking for another use
for his prize five-point K
tonight mom and I play alone as he sits in the recliner
facing the television Saraband for Dead Lovers is on
he’ll drop everything to watch Joan Greenwood
beguile suitors in old British melodramas
soon, we hear a soft snoring, his thumbless hand
propped up on a pillow on the armrest
droplets of blood touch the page edges
of Bremen Kaput open on his tired lap
