I clip toenails

while sitting at the vanity — my right foot

skewed left into the air body

curled over stomach folded fatly

— listening to the satisfying snap of keratin

crescents collecting on the tabletop

a tiny universe of mend

an examination of flaws

and excesses look in the mirror

at fragile lines

which age and death and drought

have wrought

— my mother afeared nail clippings

and hair from the brush —

burnt them in an ashtray next

to her crushed Kent cigarette butts