You count fourteen crime scenes in your fingerprints. Perhaps more, but your eyesight is raw and does not cooperate with squinting or glassware.
On left pointer, a slice from paper. From book about contagious diseases during the mid-80’s.
Thumb is bent; you lose track of the swirl that seems to be slightly off-kilter in comparison to the others.
Your thumb, you conclude, is the rebel of your hands.
Ring finger on left hand is contemplative. It is nude of silver or circles and wonders what it would be like to weigh more.
Right hand is more weathered. Pre-arthritic but preparing for the worst. These are the fingers you are most intimate with. These are the fingers which pull out your language. These are the fingers you balance your imagination on.
You spent eight years ignoring your middle fingers, then gave both away (one at a time) to all the men who stole your spit and soul.
Your mate fondles the callus on finger on right hand. Rubs it like a fortune teller’s glass seeing eye. Says there is enchantment in the hard skin, created by all that you’ve created.