prints of palms and feet, engraved contours
no creator-crafted pattern on earth like yours:
each of us unique, none ever duplicated,
each of us map-planned, not merely ill-fated
each of us placed here, divine our purpose;
life has deep meaning, not surreal circus.
all we touch leaves faint distinctive mark,
contact image made in daylight or dark.
when our hard hearts no longer beat
imprint motifs still witness, discreet;
our existence impossible to eliminate,
nothing fully removes traces of traits.
fingerprints found on ancient pottery tiles,
formal mark of maker, special seal styles,
signature prints placed on classical contracts
cannot be altered, cannot be hacked;
our creation mysterious, our minds complex:
slaves to stupid sin, false freedoms we flex.
the prints that mean absolutely most to me
belong to my dead daughter, long set free;
our praying palms spread on partition glass,
sweet those smudges, time disallows trespass;
in re-union, i’ll emulate my once-wounded wife:
long i’ll inspect your lost, proof-patterned life…
Isaiah 49:15- 16
“Can a mother forget the infant at her breast,
walk away from the baby she bore?
But even if mothers forget,
I’d never forget you—never.
Look, I’ve written your names on the backs of my hands.
image: commissioned wall rug by Ceodagan Rugs