Fingers Poem by d m

fingers
(they grow—damp
but not ripe)

(damp)
the world leans into—flesh sways
like chimes inside rotten skin

-hisscrack—snap!
one
finger, two fingers
falling silent
beneath

murmur
of the trench (deep and wet
in its hunger) ­
(flesh like flaking bread)
the fingers think about the soft ground
and wish they were as light
as they
were not

if only it were not so
slow

left with—
the ache— the hollow
where fingers once
felt
the grip of a rifle
(now forgotten)
as they slowly,
listlessly drop
towards the hungry earth

i
am
still here
if only i can touch
the dirt
with nubs that will never
rise
up against
the gray

—drip
drip
of life from
where my
(left) hand
should
hold a fist

but it is just
bone
and bone
growing brittle
until the
whisper
reaches to
speak louder than silence
and

then

there is nothing
but the hole inside
me left
to remember me.