A Body of Work #2
I have Grandmother’s fingernails.
The last time I saw her hands
They were folded on top of her
Chest, unnatural, a handkerchief
Set decoration, laced and clean,
Covered whatever glue kept
Them peaceful. Concealed
Gnarled joints sculpted by pain.
The last time I held her hand
I filed her long nails so she could
Grasp a fork, a spoon, the remote
A little easier. To place the phone
At her right ear without scratching.
The last time I visited our elderly
Cousin, Mary Nell said she was
Tired. Admired her own long
Polished nails. Said they were
The effect of lying around,
Doing little but waiting.
When I was young my nails
Would sheet in layers, soft
Shavings of undercooked shale.
I ate dirt, gelatin, milk and still
They gave way. Grandmother,
Sadly proud that I mimicked her
Eyes, smile, hair, nose and nails,
Gave me a formaldehyde tincture,
A glamoured version of embalming
Fluid to strengthen my thin weeps.
I only produced one accomplishment
In the first six months of my first
Divorce. I grew my nails and learned
To manicure, to buff and polish, push
Cuticles and make a French wrap last.
Light work and boredom made pretty
Hands with blood-colored tips once
I stopped playing my husband’s guitar.
My own garden, a long try at the potters’
Wheel, spots creeps in to camouflage
My true age. Now I keep my nails short
So they break true and don’t get in my way.
One of my Momentiles, taken last fall at Maryhill Museum
* * *
Yet another free-write that goes too far and not far enough for because of the crazy inventive ladies of October, who have given a one week challenge.
Two of seven drafts drafted. This is probably fodder for a prose poem rather than a poem. Or maybe a short story. Sometime in the future. It’s my grandmother’s birthday tomorrow. Her funeral was last November.
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Reading this, I sense connections to family be traits and bonds. Within those connections, you tell stories. Wonderfully told stories…
Thanks, Mark. Family makes for much of my writing. I have more stuff to write on that. Much more.
I love this. all the telling detail.
Thank you! It so nice to have you stop by. xxoo
I’m really liking this series as you delve deeper into your connections with body and stories of family. Keep up the good work. Hope all is well.
I like the fingernails as a metaphor because they are seemingly superficial, and yet so personal and fragile. I like the image of the grandmother with the hands folded over her chest and how that is subtly echoed later by the embalming/ formaldehyde.
The ending is quite strong as you tie in the divorce and the husband’s guitar with its presumed and metaphoric torment of finger, and the speaker commits herself to “break true” at least with her shorter (less risky) nails, but also in a sense denies/clips off her grief(s):
“Light work and boredom made pretty
Hands with blood-colored tips once
I stopped playing my husband’s guitar.
My own garden, a long try at the potters’
Wheel, spots creeps in to camouflage
My true age. Now I keep my nails short
So they break true and don’t get in my way.”
As you probably know, fingernails grow for a short while (as does hair) after death.
Thank you for such a great reading, David. You’re so generous.
I did think of including the nails continued growth in death, but wasn’t sure how I wanted to do so. I think I must have to in revision.
Thanks, again.
I like how you use nails as a metaphor for talking about life changes, your grandmother. There’s strength in the last para.
So clever you are. Nails as metaphor. To me, the poem picks up in the last few stanzas. In fact, the last three could be a poem on their own. Rock on, sister!
I’ll think about that in revision. Good idea.
i love all the stories and personalities and efforts. yes, many poems here to spin off, i think. i want to know more about each.