Girl siblings have long since spoken in fingers
from the first bash of child hands by accident
to the deliberate thread of digits in family stance.
Hold your sister’s hand, they learn. Then unlearn quick,
from ever riskier heights, how to drop the hand
that is left in charge. Smacked fingerprints for that.
They soon find their arsenal. She did it, they point;
fingers whipped from a holster, index and middle true,
thumb fubsy in a trigger and smoke blown from the tips.
They sign for victories or flick the dactyl: OFF you fuck.
They flick so many birds they rise and flock until one
comes to the distress of the other’s damsel: Sorry.
They cannot touch the untold want though they would
carry some if it helped; a want that reaches down
to a cold moon lunula. She wants to make fingerprints.
One morning she dances her a text: I went ten rounds
and this was my prize. Her fist has gathered for a newborn.
The sister fingers span to hands, arms, bodies. They hold.