My fingerprint has changed.
Lines condensed by toughening skin,
Scuffed with use,
Furrows filled with dirt that soap cannot reach.
My phone does not recognise me.
I tried so many times to log in to my mobile banking app
That they sent a new debit card
For fear that it wasn’t actually me:
This someone
Who bottle-feeds lambs three times a day
But showers twice a week;
Who connects pipes and taps
But washes hands in rainwater;
Who digs trenches
And shovels cow muck;
Who paints numbers on sheep
And eats hand-reared lamb;
Who walks among cows
And carries bales on her shoulder;
I have to use a code now.
But even as I hold fast to the date of my birth
I know that I am changing.
