My thumb,

My thumb,

thick,

but not so thick

as my father's

or as an old man's

whose hands have hung

mute fifty years

from the shoulders,

a leverage for

swinging hammers,

or gripping steady

to lift the splintered handles

of the wheel barrow,

my thumb,

bending around the neck

of the guitar,

steadying the pen against my

fingers,

knowing always

when to strike the space-

bar,

its inch-long scar

a quiet mouth,

quiet, quiet,

is not as thick as

appearance might

dictate,

only,

he lets me speak

what he would say,

words for

all my fingers

my toes

and every organ,

every cell and atom,

all of us

together.