This wacked-out little finger?
It was third grade,
he was Melvin,
she was Irene,
and I was in the way.
To Melvin I was.
Nobody asked Irene.
Irene had dark eyes,
raven hair,
a quiet smile.
Melvin wanted to see me at recess
to bend my fingers backward.
I didn’t know that’s what he wanted
until he grabbed my hand.
“Hey, that hurt!” I yelled,
balling my hand into a fist
and slugging Melvin’s bony chest,
hard.
“I’m glad Melvin’s crying,” Irene whispered,
running cold water over this very finger,
which stayed cheerfully purple and swollen
for over a month.
Prompt: Unknown