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Three fingers are the promises, Akela said, taking a finger of his own and swirling it around the circle of my thumb and little finger
I made him the sign.
Three fingers are the promises,
Akela said,
taking a finger of his own
and swirling it
around the circle
of my thumb and little finger
His finger
was poking through the loop
of my hand
like the frayed rabbit
that comes out of the hole
and round the tree
to make the bowline
he would later try to hitch
to something in my head
but which never caught.
And this circle,
this represents the world.
The bare pressure of his experienced skin brushing mine
was enough to convey the promise that
I could encircle a planet with neat, sallow digits,
encompass all the peoples;
that my wide-eyed squeak
might reverberate as a solemn vow to do them good.
He didn’t touch me again,
and the belief ebbed
as the weeks went on.
The sports and the log-chopping
and the knots and the rough-housing
and the church remembrance day boredom
whittled down my excitement.
I’ve sometimes wondered if ever
that thoughtful touch of his,
his annually rehearsed generational moment,
ever set off something in a kid’s mind
that did not leave them
until they went to war.
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