Argan, shea butter, & castor. A thousand methods
to melt, mist & moisture, however nothing to supple
knees: crease proof against chemical peel & heel masks,
instrument of pray & beg. I cough up aerosol
in moist white clouds, bleach them into magnificence
slick as slobbered bone. The Greeks thought nymphs
lived within the corrugated bark of ash bushes, Oread beings
who weaned child Zeus on honey & goat milk—
my very own ashen trunks are all hair & fairy-less,
demanding countless nourishment, as I did,
hanging the butt of my spoon on the desk
and keen my grandmother’s ladle to materialize
from steam. My grandmother, whose knees
are sandpaper, slabs of irrevocably hardened clay.
Knees sturdy because the concrete guts of a home, purple
as silk drapes spinning off mites by way of the open window.
Knees of service saved her abdomen and her siblings’ full,
held her physique afloat, two creaky wood boats
forged on the ft of chairs the place international males sat,
their heads tipped again as she lapped the spare change
secreting from their pockets. She’s the one who taught me
something wealthy is value paying for, praised heavy
cream & serum-whipped pores and skin, no matter fills & fills
the cracks. She taught me to soak my very own knees
in lemon & a greenback coin of daylight, tender & clear
as hers couldn’t be. My earliest recollections,
balloon-bellied in her bathtub, shying decrease limbs
in dish-soap bubbles from her fist of pumice
& promised slap of pacifying oil—we be taught to assuage
what stings. Clean what can’t be soothed.
Ode to Ashy Knees
