the window to my soul is not
my eyes
but rather my fingers
these fingers, they pluck
and trill
they cradle the neck of my violin
grinding wire into their tips
as they sing
they scratch soft bellies
trace hearts into furred backs
and chase after wiggling tails
they grip fineliner pens
between the thumb and forefinger
and write, ink to paper (a fading medium)
a cursive script
and they peel oranges/chop onions,
removing skins and skeins
to the rumbles of a belly
infused with hunger
these fingers also scratch
and claw
and peel at scabs
gathering dirt and detritus and dried blood underneath their nails
they scramble to fix, always fixing
desperate to convert what isn’t
into what could be.
Comments
No posts