PHANTOM SHAKER
No little finger, no ring finger
carries pistol of flesh.
My cousin Rini.
Cowboy of the Kempen.
And this is his song:
half a hump
half a clump
half a stump.
I (thirteen at last) have travelled a long, slow afternoon
to shake this hand. Here I am. Without fear.
It’s me: the Phantom Shaker.
Being able to hold this hand
is to feel a great warm beast.
Being able to grasp this hand
is to give death half a mitt,
is to congratulate life.
I beg you, Rini, tell me at last,
‘cause I’m thirteen at last
and promises are promises,
how did you lose your fingers?
‘In the war, lad. Not the war, another one . . . Or do I tell a lie?’
‘No, lad, it was a Giant Flemish rabbit, tall as a house.’
‘No, in the foul-mouthed vulva of a Greek girl who had to sneeze.
Half a hump
half a clump
half a stump.
‘Where are they now, Rini, your fingers? Your real ones? Your other real ones?
I swear I can keep a secret. Rini, I swear it with spit.
Between index and ring finger I swear.’
‘In a jar in the linen chest,
resting, in brandy. Swaying, waiting for daylight.’
‘When will I see them at last?
We’re getting so old, so old.’
‘May be opened and viewed
on payment of a packet
of Caballeros without filter,
roll up. Will you be there?
‘When? S’il vous please; when?’
‘This is when: Tuesday next year
when the barbed wire’s in bloom.’
