Poem

Stephanie Berger

HAND (THE FINGERS)

I. A British Boyfriend's Little

He grew the nail long to tuck in spliffs.
I ceased to pound coffee, briefly,

as we drank tea instead, with milk.
When he sipped, sometimes it would lift.

In the mornings he'd use it
to carve songs into my back as we lay in bed.

II. My Mother's Ring

I remember attempting to twist
the gold band around it,

while curled up in her lap. But even
on that creamy, loose skin, the little loop stuck

tight enough to only come off
in those years I can't remember.

III. A Shaggy Man's Middle

In a subway car, he held a hand-rail
far above me, extending it alone,

flipping kids off below. Dirt coated it,
and there were five small, regular cuts

on the padded part, its print—perhaps
the strike of a baby badger.

IV. My Father's Index

When he prepared guacamole, it was
his scooper, I his tester.

I would tell him to add salt,
garlic, sour cream, Tabasco because

I liked to taste it over and over,
tobacco stain and all.

V. An Old Friend's Thumb

After nights of heavy drinking,
she woke up with a brown blood bruise

beneath its nail. It changed colors
every day until it halted blue.

Discoloration remains,
and she continues to press on it.

Stephanie Berger

Stephanie Berger, California-born, is currently a Creative Writing MFA student at the New School University. Her interests include syncopation, sashimi, and anagrams. She lives and writes with her life-partner, Moja, in Brooklyn, New York.

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