Moss
That summer she painted her toenails
for the first time. So this is grown-up
she thought as she wadded cotton balls
between her toes, propped one foot
at a time on the toilet seat and daubed
green flecked with gold leaf on each
neatly trimmed nail, trying to brush
away from herself from cuticle to tip
in one smooth, steady stroke as she’s
seen other women do. “Top Speed”
the label promises; she wanders splay-
toed a good hour to be sure. Her whole
life she’s loathed her feet. Why now
at forty-eight should she fall in love
with her toes, go so far as to adorn
them with Moss, not to mention catch
herself admiring the same extremities
that so long had given her so much
grief? Why shouldn’t middle age
give as well as take, she wonders
as she stands before rows of banked
bottles at the Rite-Aid, pondering
which should be next. When she looks
down, as she often does these days, why
shouldn’t she see Smoke, Sea, Mist, Sky?
—First published in The Ledge
To an Unknown Goddess
She of the missing digits, who cradles a handful
of sheaves, their tassels lost so
long ago, the broken stems flower with mildew
and algae; she whose helmet of neat banana curls
is netted by spider webs, whose two
still intact ears are stopped by fall’s drift, and left
nostril drips a dust strand with which the breeze
toys; she, whose voluminous dolomitic
folds, tender inside of bent elbow, and flexed toes
are dirty for eternity, or at least until they crumble
to grit, whose one bared breast is polished
by the elements, her arched neck lovely, her palms,
despite lacking fingers, relaxed; you, who cannot
see or hear, touch or feel, are more
beautiful for being broken. Once children like us,
imperfect, flawed, were left on mountain tops to die.
Tell me, goddess, how we came to be
stranded here together on this Adirondack porch.
—First published in The Deaf Poets Society