My mother’s finger was cut off
by a slamming door.

Or should I say that she stuck her finger in it
to stop the slicing wind.

Honey, don’t shiver, just
feed the hungry wind this bloody piece of meat.

At the sight of the flame ignited by the blood,
the coyotes outside the door ran away.

O my mother pacing and pacing,
clutching her pale stiffening finger like a candle.