I'd like to read a poem called "Fingers,"
since there was a reference to fingers in the introduction.
One thing that happened to me when
I was working at the factory, was
I started to show the first symptoms of frostbite.
In your fingers, it's just something
that's going to happen naturally when
you're working with thousands of pounds of frozen meat products.
And I was wearing a ring which made the swelling even worse.
So the ring had to be cut off right away
before who knows what happened.
And that's what this poem is about.
"Fingers."
"Because of the frozen meat and a silver ring,
my index finger swelled and dimmed.
The men held down my wrist and used a saw.
I fought back the need to squirm and watched
where the nicked-up teeth missed and the scars began to form.
I remember the day Julio longed to go home.
Nothing passed time like work.
Unconscious work, when the bones pounded
and the muscles stretched.
So when the stuffer jammed, Julio
jumped on a stool, lowered half his body into the machine,
and when his thigh brushed against the go button,
the blade moved an inch and sliced off his index finger.
I wiped up the blood and thought about Julio.
How he did not cry out, how he asked for my smock,
and held his hand against his chest.
How he pushed away those who tried to help.
How the finger was never found.
But most of all, I thought about myself.
Would I have screamed?
Could I have taken the pain?
Walked outside to the employee payphone,
and with my one good hand still held steady, dialed 911?"
So what happened to the finger?
It's in the chorizo.