Poetry Wednesday - back on track - Digitalis

My 2nd most rejected poem

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Hello Red Cabbage Head readers,

I have received only rejections this month so far, I know it’s not long into June but I’m killing

Allegra Chapman

’s rejection game - 7 poetry v rejections already this month Allegra.

Last week I gave you my most rejected poem, this week I can give you my second most rejected one as it came back a couple of days ago with another rejection. Again, I quite like this one. (Yes, I do actually send out ones I don’t really like - ironically they tend to get selected more than the ones I do like.) I love the play in the title. Digitalis - the poisonous foxglove plant that provides a drug that can cause rather severe heart issues and even death. And then the fact that this poem is ultimately about fingers - digits! Maybe I took the word play too far and that is why it’s not received well. But hey, can’t win them all.

Photo by Slawek K on Unsplash

Digitalis 

He had odd fingers. 
Unusual for a man.

I have large hands, builder’s hands, 
That would look better on a bloke.
A palm like a shovel, a thumb short and stumpy.
My fingers alone redeem, long enough to balance,
To compensate, and make my mitts passable for a woman. 
This time my hand seemed too small in another’s.
I felt awkward, unbalanced, my world view off-kilter.

His hands were long and thin and lithe,
Almost effeminate, unlike the rest of him, 
Stocky, solid, present.
His hands are otherworldly, fay, etherial. 
They shouldn’t be in this world, they don’t belong.
It seemed his fingers bent where they shouldn't, 
too long, full of joints and tendons and movement,
Explicit in their anatomy,
Spiked with wrongness.

They made me cringe. 

He played air-piano with them 
Pounding the empty space in front of him with a conscious dexterity
Wielding those squirming, wiggling digits deliberately. 
Enjoying the music and his reaction to it.
Pleasure written on his face. 

They made me shudder.

When he held me, 
His hands reached further round me than they should, 
Tickling rib ends unexpectedly,
Touching muscles not used to contact.
He was gentle and calm but still I jumped at their brush,
Never expecting them, their extra extension invasive. 

They made me wince.

They stilled my heart and stopped me learning to love him.
He held them still, interlaced in his lap, when I told him.
When I told him we could be no more, 
I didn’t mention those hands. 
These hands I could no longer bare to look at. 
That my love was decided on such a ridiculous basis. 
That his odd fingers, his genetic inheritance, turned me off and 
We were through. 

They poisoned me. 

So there, a poem about fingers of all things. Let me know what you think.

That’s all folks, til next time. Tx

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