When they severed her finger, Dolores was glad.
In the basement, where the old men played poker,
one of them died. His pockets were empty.

It took her three tries, each time
she laid her fingers on the butcher block,
but twice she pulled away too quickly,
caught up in a note, a needle in a groove,
her fingers tapping out the rhythm in the wood.

A mechanic took his place.
He had gentle hands,
dealing pinochle cards instead.
Dolores traded her finger with him,
he sopped up the blood with a blue handkerchief
and a loaf of bread he baked
with her name inside the dough.
He said “Stop dancing. Eat.”
In return, he gave her
the smallest diamond in the world.
Someone took their picture.
Dolores kept her hands behind her waist.