WEBVTT

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I'd like to read a
poem called "Fingers,"

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since there was a reference to
fingers in the introduction.

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One thing that
happened to me when

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I was working at
the factory, was

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I started to show the first
symptoms of frostbite.

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In your fingers,
it's just something

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that's going to
happen naturally when

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you're working with thousands of
pounds of frozen meat products.

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And I was wearing a ring which
made the swelling even worse.

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So the ring had to
be cut off right away

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before who knows what happened.

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And that's what
this poem is about.

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"Fingers."

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"Because of the frozen
meat and a silver ring,

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my index finger
swelled and dimmed.

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The men held down my
wrist and used a saw.

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I fought back the need
to squirm and watched

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where the nicked-up teeth missed
and the scars began to form.

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I remember the day
Julio longed to go home.

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Nothing passed time like work.

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Unconscious work,
when the bones pounded

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and the muscles stretched.

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So when the stuffer
jammed, Julio

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jumped on a stool, lowered
half his body into the machine,

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and when his thigh brushed
against the go button,

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the blade moved an inch and
sliced off his index finger.

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I wiped up the blood
and thought about Julio.

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How he did not cry out,
how he asked for my smock,

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and held his hand
against his chest.

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How he pushed away
those who tried to help.

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How the finger was never found.

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But most of all, I
thought about myself.

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Would I have screamed?

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Could I have taken the pain?

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Walked outside to the
employee payphone,

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and with my one good hand
still held steady, dialed 911?"

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So what happened to the finger?

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It's in the chorizo.

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