See here a toddler’s arm,
the plump wrist creased,
the dimpled fingers curving
as if waiting for the mother
to clasp all six tight in her own.
Hush now, she’d say, it’s all right.
There in the next jar, harshly lit,
hangs another, the mirror image
down to its supernumerary digit.
Whoever labelled them typed neatly
on old-fashioned keys, their medic’s language
precise. No sign of a slip.
What I’m looking at spelled out.
Twice over. Still I fail to grasp.