GEORGE, AFRAID OF FINGERPRINTS

GEORGE, AFRAID OF FINGERPRINTS

GEORGE, AFRAID OF FINGERPRINTS

thought of
them on patted dogs, the purple leaves
of late geraniums, or gathering ancient
in the pockets of his winter coat.

Their gauze
was on his bookshelves, from the heartwood
to the spine of Henry James. They trailed him
as he clutched the banister at night.

At length,
he thought of how they’d linger in the auburn
of his first wife’s hair, their savour
on her temples, or her own quick fingertips

and saw
them spread through every hand he’d shook
and every shoe he’d forced, still laced
onto his foot, and every door handle

he’d tried
and given up. The shape of them
when he closed his eyes, like something
jammed at the dresser back,

a vision
of his childhood street, the varnish tin
in the corner shop, its silver lid,
its weight so startling in his fist.

His mother’s voice.
The careful turning out and owning up.
Even now, his mark there in the centre,
those brilliant spirals burning on it still.