The finger asked me:

‘Of all the fingers you own,

why did you choose me to hurt?’

I avoided an answer

Because I was void of one

Head bent in guilt, I pleaded,

It was an accident, no,

not my carelessness

for I saw the machete swing,

like it had swung at other times

as I broke the husk of a coconut.

But how could I tell,

yes, how could I tell

that the machete would miss the coconut

choose the finger that held it?

Now, athrob with pain and dripping blood

my thumb does not feel like my own.