Imaginary Lives

When someone refers to the index finger,
I always picture a slender librarian
with pursed red lips
who continually shushes
and hushes
and licks her finger just to brush it
against inked pages,
perusing the indexes and glossaries
to find out where a certain tome resides.

When they mention the pinky finger,
I imagine a young girl who feels useless
and not nearly as strong as her sisters,
but, at the same time, I don't like to imagine
a hand without the pinky, because she adds
an undeniable air of delicacy
to a potentially clunky bodily member.

And when they bring up the ring finger,
I imagine a wistful lover, eyes wide and starry
as she awaits for a golden band to slip over her,
to seal a sacred bond between two others
that will be symbolized
by her newfound adornment.

And when they mention hands,
I remember a time when mine was not so cold,
and when I didn't have to imagine
how the fingers had lives,
because my mind was too riddled
with thoughts of a boy
who slipped his hand through mine
and promised not to let go.