A Promiscuous Poem Just for You
The number four isn't so bad
I tell myself
Just one hand
The fingers of just one hand.
Index,
Pointing in stern disbelief
Or
Obliging you to come hither
Middle
Expressing my anger, my more than slight vulgarity
Eager defiant feminism even on my back.
The ring
Its bareness, it seems to be saying I broke the rules
Of someone elses game.
Pinky.
Small, pink flesh childlike, my impatience
I have room: the thumb the sturdy stablity
When fingers trace over the keys
Creme and Ebony
I am reminded
Of some not So bad descions,
Of passion. Of gripping intensity.
Of poignant laughter. Of conversation.
Of frienship. Of lust and of love.