Pineola

Severed finger of a convicted murderer uncurls like a waking pet.

Demonic compass points toward the most dangerous direction to get home.

Its long yellow fingernail can pick any lock.

On the fishhook, the finger resembles a long, fat mealworm.

Most times, it’s lodged in the throats of my enemies

or hiding among the tampons of cops’ wives.

It avoids gold rings, bad luck.

When wearing this rot relic on a chain,

sunlight smells like stale curtains in a worn-out hearse.

Rain never hits my clothes.

Rooms seem hotter.

Radios turn on by themselves, always to the same Lucinda Williams song.

Use any mirror as a doorway, I come out into the same sweaty

bedroom from a previous life. I forget who is wearing whom.

I pierce the fingertip to draw up a will.

I dip the finger in water. I point it toward the sun. I flick it to make it rain.

Hanging on the wall,

I sleep under this bird, booger-picker, dream catcher,

missing piece of an inverted crucifix, rotting pencil.

It sleeps over me like an accusative God.

Around midnight, I wake up, the finger is typing in the next room.

What is it composing at this time of night?

Letters to a parole board,

love letters to the rest of the hand,

midnight sermons,

ransom notes pertaining to me,

memoirs about life, hanging from my neck ...