Fingers, Thumbs, Palms

Yes, palm and fingers do recall

those hands that raised me, walking tall,

my palm wrapped round his pinkie hook.

Their tips traced round my garden palms

then stepped and skipped, bowl underarm,

to tickle, after pregnant pause.

That cradle on from steeple formed,

for I was knit, my mother’s womb,

then dandled, upstairs, downstairs too.

My siblings, I, played with cat’s wool,

our scenes changed as played on the nail,

becoming tipsters, knuckle dust.

Both parents in my fingers, thumbs

as rooted, spreading from my palms,

though they now parted from their form.

So from their hands I grew apart,

she once palm olive, he napalm -

in fashion and Nam soldier rôles.

Though both imprinted, born, beyond,

genetic, double helix worn,

but I must own my own print whorl.

We all leave imprints of our line,

that palmistry of family tree,

though sometimes, oft, all fingers, thumbs.

Now weaker eminence, in crease,

skin leather, parchment, tenderised,

impregnated, what oils survive?

After Genetics by Sinead Morrissey