Fingerprint

 

fingerprints-on-a-wine-glass

 

At the moment I am trying to unlearn a few dated techniques in my writing: slavery to certain rhythms and meters, structures and suchlike. This is a brief poem about the patterns we do learn. 

 

 

To start, the image of myself though clean lacked

Practicality.

I, like a clear blue sky, lacked any

Agency,

An empty glass vessel, unmarked and

Fragile in an uninteresting way.

A pristine snapshot of thin air,

A canvas of pure Klein blue.

Now of course your fingerprints are

All over me, my speech, my tongue, my

Throat, every sound I make.

I learned a pattern from you,

I was a pattern of you, I remain

A pattern. Even the twist

In the wineglass stem between fingers

Left its mark.

Forensically

One can detect a unique pattern not just

From the deoxyribonucleic acid but

Also fingertips, true, and also

The tongue; also the ear, unique to us all

In infinitesimally small and delicate ways.

The imprint, as evidence, has successfully

Condemned several men.

So in these respects

Intimately with these tongue and fingers

And patterns traced within my ears

I am a marked surface,

Retracing these patterns.

 

 

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