(v)

In the purple blossom

of her bruises

she traces the shape

of his knuckles.

Cries at the glad fall

into the gentle browns

of his eyes, strength

of his black hair.

She learns how to leave,

how to say “no”.

(vi)

His wife has chocolate fingers,

dark and sweet,

inhale bubblegum

from the tips,

pink wafer nails,

taste of red fruit wine.

A taste that doesn’t cloy,

not syrupy or over sugared.

This woman knows how to work her fingers

(vii)

Daddy God finger, abuse finger, where are you?

Here I am, here I am, let me do you, let me do you.

Mummy Mary finger, let him finger, where are you? Here I am, here I am. Let him do you. Let him do you.

Brother finger, Cain finger, where are you?

Here I am, Here I am, ready to kill, ready to kill.

Sister finger, Mercy finger, where are you?. Here I am, Here I am, Pray to you, pray to you.

Baby finger, Jesus finger, where are you?

Here I am, here I am. Killed for you, killed for you.

(viii)

Tiny lamb’s hooves gain purchase

in the grooves of gust worn cracks

beneath a looming ancient stone crag.

Little fingers like young stones caught ,

in the raked valleys of a Zen garden,

a tiny baby grasps Dad’s finger base ,

cranes eyes to the precipice edge ,

the furrowed horizon of skin.