My childhood fossilized
in a moment
as my handprint displaces
plaster leaving
my palm lifelines stunted;
forensic decades cling dust
to my unique ridges and whirls
embalmed in miniature replicas
until I blow the evidence away
with its discovery
in Mom’s dresser.
The Big Bad Wolf
huffs and puffs
and blows down
on Mom’s grave,
but sod, packed dirt,
vault and casket
hold up
in brick-house strength.
My hand no longer fits
in that kindergarten mold,
and as I rest my hand
on the gravestone,
it leaves no print
in granite or dust.