Mortal Polish
by Christine Jackson
After a shower,
I assess my toes,
observe the cartilage
balanced over them
like scored tabletops,
hard stubs marred with
flecks, chips, cracks,
And maybe,
On the big one,
A milky patch of fungus.
The two smallest are completely bare,
pink naked skin;
The others have suffered
Electrifying collisions
With various bed castors.
I count the sorrows,
One for each piggy
That strayed to market
Instead of staying home
Safe in front of the flat screen:
Four funerals, two biopsies,
Two layoffs,
One totaled Nissan,
And a regimen of chemo,
Since I painted them last.
Do they grow after death?
Or does the flesh shrivel
Under the chitin plates,
Making them look longer?
Who would notice?
I dip the brush
And lacquer each square
With a protective coating,
A single layer of blood red
To cover seeping.
Christine Jackson grew up in New England and now teaches literature and creative writing at a South Florida university. That is, she is supposed to teach but she continues to learn all kinds of stuff from her students.