So today’s topic is fingers, and the style is prose poetry. I’ve never done prose poetry before, and from the examples I checked out, I’m not sure how I feel about this particular style of poetry. Neither said examples nor my attempt at the form feel overly poetic. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself? Or maybe I just really don’t get this form.
Regardless, I took a stab at it and here’s my attempt:
I have my mother’s hands. Long, slender fingers taper off into music, into songs of faraway people and stories of far-off places. Words and ideas flow forth from my fingertips like the river pours life into the world around it.
Mine are musician’s fingers. Mine are magician’s fingers.
My hands, my fingers, create worlds. They destroy worlds. They are sleek and elegant, like the instruments they wield and the scenes they depict. They are tender and careful, conveying love and devotion with the slightest caress.
I have my mother’s hands. I wouldn’t want anyone else’s.
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