Joanna Costello

Fingerprints

Published in Bath Spa Anthology 2008.


You slept, peaceful, after our last night.
Your hand open, uncovered against the sheets –
You offer me your world, asleep.
I trace your finger like a map,
dip into each trough and peak,
as if to find something I had lost
in the eddies of your prints.
Deep ravines trickle like streams,
I follow them to the edges of your fingers –
white-tipped and cold.
I hold them, all arches and whorls –
A labyrinth of curls trapping my gaze.
Then I sit for a while and try to find
my way to the centre
but it’s impossible to make out the lines.
I rub your hands as if my scent were an ink
and I could follow your prints back home.
But I turn to leave, and like the ripples
on your fingers, we will grow apart.
The taxi hums outside the door.

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, July 28, 2009

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