(I)

She read her first hands.

Small, spatula shaped.

Stumpy fingers.

Not large enough to be manual.

Not thin enough to be artistic.

Wanted to be a true reflection

of others, but his surface

held too many imperfections.

His eyes were blank spheres,

his conflict in his palms.

He would lie to her.

Keep things to himself.

He gave her doubt.

(ii)

Another’s long tender digits play timpani

between her legs. Their slender

reach

works a flood within her.

As they helter skelter

spirals from tip to base

on each of her breasts

she loses control when

they are half way down

the slide and she flies.

His tongue: a ninth finger,

touch types her labia

so she breathes glossolalia

with her ninth finger.

He made her feel good

(iii)

Another: more fish than man.

His skin has scales

between his fingers,

at their base

a thin film to make

any swim easier.

His imagination is a fish bladder.

He swerves over her coral.

She saw another way to live.

(iv)

She examines her hands in awe,

as if newly discovered.

Amazed they belong to her,

and that she controls them.

Curls each finger, notes

how each joint works.

Finger of one hand follows

the lines of the other

as if to remap, retraverse

the landscapes of age.

She let her know what was to come.

TO BE CONTINUED