Fingers

I thought of Steve and his haddock-scented fingers
one drizzly Friday afternoon, of course.
In the shower, about an hour later,
whilst drowning in the hot current,
the nurse’s cool hand on my
back. I could feel the tension in those hard
pressed fingers as baby emerged, purple and stiff.
Both of us silenced by events.

Later,
I thought of Steve and his haddock-scented fingers
one drizzly, Friday afternoon
when I climbed the wall,
stalled for a few minutes, looking down at the floors
below me

And I saw HER.
the warm, soft hands,
scented with baby powder and love,
balled fists bursting open.
And my doughy finger, taking
its place as hers wound their way into
my heart.

I watched my fingers straining together as their clutch trembled over knees. Rough cuticles, nails chewed down to the marrow. Traces of purple polish, left over from that other life. Engorged green veins threading through the day, leading me to

chin hugging chest.  I teetered on that wall
and as I tipped,
I thought of Steve and his haddock-scented fingers.

© Jacqui Thatcher 2015