I wrote this after going to a department store with my friend. I imagined if each finger had a personality, and then based the character off of someone that is like someone I used to know.
Multicolored fingernails.
Lori walks into a department store.
She picks the colors that fit her liking.
She leaves.
Free of charge,
Free of consequences.
Left hand. Dominant.
The sparkly yellow thumb.
She politely asks wild lovebug if he wants a ride.
He accepts, wildly exploring,
Finding comfort in the faded cigarette burn.
Soon fades into the wind.
The orange pointer finger.
She clashes with yellow.
Lori kind of likes it that way.
Visible vein runs through,
Tromping through her wildflowers of flesh.
Vein knows it’s a dead end,
It just enjoys the journey.
The glittered pink middle finger.
Tainted with the blood of rage.
He dances in the limelight often,
Solos of passion.
He doesn’t care if no one claps.
He performs for himself.
Uncolored ring finger
Stop defining him with an accessory,
Don’t try to suffocate him with a ring.
He’s a rebel,
Wearing no color,
For Lori could not find a fitting one she liked.
He glides through the fresh spray paint on the train.
The mess is nice.
Black pinkie finger.
She’s subtly backed by ever color,
Glimmering in the light.
She’s just a tad bit crooked.
She digs into Mom’s Thanksgiving mashed potatoes,
Bold and mocking.
Taken out of the mouth with a loud pop.
Right hand. Lesser dominant, but still.
Iridescent thumb,
Swirled with greens, blues, purples in a galaxy.
He strokes the knob of the telescope
As Lori tries to look for something bigger than this,
Trying to delve past her own layers.
But she looks at the stars
With differently colored fingernails,
So that must mean she’s deep.
Slimy green pointer finger,
What a devil she is,
For she caresses Anya,
Dragging from the blush on her cheeks
To her sensitive thigh, riddled with goosebumps.
All the while, apathetic.
She knows Lori has a date with another in an hour.
Nevertheless, she rakes and pillages Anya’s love.
Purple middle finger,
They don’t want to be gendered.
Please use the correct pronouns.
They’re quite sweet,
But quite wild,
Stroking the volume to the radio
With a startling intensity.
Sparkly orange ring finger,
She’s soft and lonely,
Tired of being forgotten,
Misnamed after her twin.
She traces the words to the bible
As Lori’s tears fall softly upon it,
Remembering the home which she rebelled from.
Pale blue pinkie.
He’s a little funny,
A little mess of polish on the top.
A scar adorns his side
From the snap of trying to tune a piano string,
The memory of eight years of le—
chop.
Lori is interrupted from admiring her fingers.
She regrets not paying the candy man on time
But the cocaine just paired so well with breakfast,
Right before a bite of toast
With a little jam.
Wow. Like with almost all of your poems, I don’t fully understand and I don’t know if I’m meant to. But also like with all of your poems, I am taken back. Your poems are always so capturing and this one is no different. I’m not sure how it makes me feel, but I enjoy it. Good job!
That was amazing, i got goosebumps. Every single line took you through the story and the subtle detail made it that much better.
zOe….. I was so into the simple use of metaphors and the depth each line held on it’s own, only describing the fingers as they were. I was not expecting the ending. It completely changed and rearranged my point of view on the story and I had to go and reread it. I am stunned, I loved this. Please write more blogs like this; I am intrigued and in awe of this poem.
I did not expect this to end the way that it did, but I liked how surprised it left me. I really like this poem and how it deals with identity.
I’m going to have to reread this. I wish I could understand this with the first read but nevertheless, your writing is beautiful.
I love to hear your poems, though most of them make me cry. I love hearing the passion in your voice and I can hear you reading this and I loved it. I loved the way it didn’t rhyme and the metaphors were amazing. Truly beautiful work.