The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Michele Wolf

Fingerprints

When I was applying to become a mother,
The police kept scrutinizing my fingertips,
By ink, by computer—inspected them
Four times. Social workers grilled me
About my childhood, judged my parenting
Philosophy. My dossier ran fifty-eight pages long.

The whorls wear off if, day after day, you are
Sawing and sandpapering—smoothing out
Defects—or you’re a musician plucking
Strings, a teller flicking through stacks
Of twenties, or an editor dedicated
To fine-tuning stories, fast-tapping a keyboard.

I no longer had fingerprints. With the passage
Of years, they had worn off onto the warm
Back of my husband while I was
Trying—so many times, repatching my
Heart so many times—to become a mom. 



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