Essential Oils

I see his fingerprints altering

the smooth surface.

Lines of identification.

I smudge them with my own fingers,

and think how much I want

the ever so slight impression

of his prints on me.

My skin responding to the touch

with chills, and quivering.

His identity will be all over my body.

Such a powerful thing, a print.

As varied as a face, an iris.

Completely incriminating, tracing us all.

When I realize this,

a touch is never the same.

(original poem from October 1991. Revision done 08/18/2020)