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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1. a new body of work #1
2. A Body of Work #4
3. A Body of Work #6