Tiny fingers wrap around a single solid digit and clutch as if to say, “Be my anchor. Hold me. Stay.”

Fingers grow. Finding a low table, they pull the body upright, then celebrate by beating baby rhythms on the wood.

Fat fingers clutch crayons. Scribble blue. That’s you. Scribble green. That me.

Fingers finger-play at school. Clap, snap, pattycake. Down, down, Baby, down by the roller coaster. Let’s get the rhythm of the hands, Clap Clap.

Fingers touch forbidden fruit. “Lemme look! Lemme see.” Not with fingers, just with eyes. Don’t touch. DON’T TOUCH!

Finger marks welt pink cheek red, perfect prints on a soft, convex canvas.   Macbeth fingers quake with fear, close and open, close and open.

Fingers laced in fervent prayer, plead for an answer, seek a reason, beg for mercy.

Frightened fingers curl in, retreat, withdraw.

 

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Writing 201: Poetry
Assignment — Day 7:

Prompt: Fingers
Form: Prose Poem
Device: Assonance

Personal note:  This piece begins in joyful innocence.  Hands are an extension of our hearts.  But then it goes where it shouldn’t, where many children I see daily go.

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