I had never cut my fingernails; would only retouch
occasional casualties – cracks on thumbs, hooks on
index fingers, too long witch-like pinkies. Not once
did I sit down with a tiny pair of curved scissors
to trim down all ten. But I live here now, inside
your outside dream. My gloves can’t compete
with cupped hands shovelling fresh molehills
into planting holes and biodegradable pots.
No nail brush can handle the wet earth
hugging and sucking ripe parsnips.
At night, I pull you on top –
as usual, I run
my fingers down your back
– this time you kiss my neck
Published in my chapbook Fold me a Fishtail (Selcouth Station Press). An earlier version of this poem first appeared on Ink Sweat & Tears (May 2020).