Polished Nails
Rozanne Gold


So little today
just a woman on the verge  

Eyes sunken
and cheekbones jutting 

There were tumors on the side of her face 
where the jaw line met the
ear and skin stretched 
tight over bones and hollows –
slight movement of the lips
a raising of the brow
and a last act of grace

Beds the color of blood
the promise of petals

You smell sweet to me
not at all like dust

A mother’s most loving gesture
to polish her grown daughter’s nails