Fingers - Myra Davies, Gudrun Gut

Four fingers lying on a white linen cloth

They looked out of place, I stared at them

Wondering 'What were they doing there?'

They were fat, sort of stubby and quite pink

I didn’t recognize them

So they couldn’t be his

I wouldn’t have forgotten fingers like that

So out of agreement with the rest of him

But there they were

The fingers lay in plain view on the white linen

I couldn’t see the rst of the hand

One would have to assum it was there

Concealed below the table edge

One would also have to assume the unseen hand was connected to an arm

Presumably occupying the sleeve of his suit jacket

Well, it was something occupying the sleeve

I assumed it was an arm

But even with all these assumptions

I was still having trouble with the fingers

A matched set of four lying slightly splayed on the linen

I panned from the fingers to the sleeve from the sleeve to the shoulder

From the shoulder over to the collar

Nothing strange about the neck

The neck supported a head that looked, for all intents and purposes

Just like his head

It was wearing his face

I knew that face, too well

I had to dismiss the argument that the fingers belonged to somebody else

But one thing kept nagging at me

If they’re his, then those fingers have been all over me

And I don’t even know them

That didn’t feel right

I didn’t like it

And I still didn’t recognise them

The big question was Why?

And the facts pointed to one conclusion

I’d never noticed them

You see I thought I knew so much

But I guess I just assumed

I guess I assumed a lot in those days

Funny how that happens

I looked back at the fingers

They hadn’t moved

They lay on the starched white linen like four fresh fish on ice

Pink, plump, and slightly splayed

And I thought to myself

'My God, those are His fingers'

And seeing them now as his

I thought them touching

Beautiful even

But it was a little late, for that