Pulses

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For more than a week, I thought 
cutting off my toe was penance. 

I delved a hole for this toe, 
a quick, tiny sepulcher at the crook 

of a tree, but my desire for 
a whole foot only grew. I 

lay down beside the gap. 
The Spirit of Elijah asked if 

my fingers were poison, 
too. This question stunned 

me. Fingers are personal, 
an autograph of a person’s day 

or ruthless absence. Like a 
mutable seer stone flung into 

the vast numinous, no one is 
going to miss this toe, or 

search long for it, or mistake 
it as the start of an exodus of fingers.