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