I teach her to paint flowers.
I play cards with her.
I wheel her outside in her wheelchair.
In the warm, sunny air.
I show her I care.
While my dear mother in Heaven
looks down and smiles.
I smile too.
And then.
Shed a tear.

I grew up sweaty all year 'round,
except maybe on Sundays when I had
to clean up my act and sit in quiet eternity on an oak pew,
fidgeting with the screws in the wood,
sometimes breathing out of my mouth on account
of how bad old people smell
which always made me wonder
what age the smelling starts

I split my fingernails because maybe the screws
I was fidgeting with held the whole thing together
and if I could turn just one rusty head, I could
collapse the seat, maybe even the whole building

It was a always itchy hot, and babies were forever crying in the back
I used to think that they had babies crying in the back
to make us think it was baby Jesus crying for our sins
until one day I realized they were just babies,
and they were hot and fidgety too

I was clean on the inside,
sweaty outside
but clean on the inside and no one else knew it but me
and maybe my little sister,
and she secretly hoped I was right

One time she brought a nail file she’d hidden in her
jumbled nest of a hair-do and slipped it into my hand
making my face look confused

“For the ***** silly, “ she whispered,
dinosaur voice and slight lisp
“make it turn, maybe you can make it turn with that”

She was sweaty too, crusted syrup on her bottom lip,
feet dangling far above the squeaky floor
but as far as I was concerned,  
she was the most beautiful
sweaty little angel in the world

be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them

I'm sure I look fine.

Days like today,
I want to strip the skin
From my forearms
Using only my fingernails.

Days like today,
I want to wring out
My legs like a washcloth,
Squeeze the rolls on my stomach
Until they're empty.

Days like this,
I want to walk away from my body
forever.

I'm sure I look fine.