2 Poems

Fingernails

A pile of sliver-like crescents,
dusty white,
your fingernails,
rest at the edge of the bathroom counter
in a weak little pyramid.

“Did you forget something?” I shout
to my reflection,
noticing the movement of my freckled nose
and the reddening strain of my jaw.

Conan’s mumbling tone
pulls on my patience,
then you laughter, overtly high and
defiant.

When I step into the doorframe
you gaze ahead, and the dog brings
her head out from her raised and resting leg.

“She’s gross, like you,” I say,
exhaling with a smile,
but you do not laugh. No,
your blue and black galaxy eyes
gaze to the red-haired man who apologizes
over and over
for his lack of humor.

“Uh-huh,” you say,
when you pass, wafting the lavender scent
of my soap.
The dog follows like a scene from romantic comedy.
You only need to slip and fall on the tile’s condensation.
Then curse, then laugh
at your clumsiness
and my cleanliness.

Instead, I hear ticks of plastic
as bits of you fall to
to the trash.
A flick and shadows flood the hall.

Freckles

Miniature fingers
So tender and pure

Press against
A freckle on my arm

As I open Ava’s diaper

“Owee,” she says
            “No, freckle,” I say
“Owee,” she says again
            “No”

They seem suddenly grotesque

I feel suddenly defensive for
Those little brown dots
All over my body

“You have them too,” I announce.

One-two-three-four
Faint little dots on her butter
Smooth skin

“See, freckle”

I hope I’ve taught her a lesson about sensitivity