Argan, shea butter, and castor. A thousand ways
softening, mist and moisture, but nothing to endure
knees: protection against chemical peel and heel mask,
a tool for begging and begging. I cough up the aerosol
in white white clouds, give them beauty
as cunning as a slipped bone. The Greeks thought nymphs
he lived in the tin bark of ash trees, Oread creatures
who weaned the child Zeus on honey and goat’s milk—
my ash trunks are all hairy and storyless,
needing endless nourishment, as I did,
banging the butt of my spoon on the table
and my grandmother’s ladle is ready to materialize
from steam. My grandmother, whose knees
it is sandpaper, slabs of hard, immutable clay.
Knees as strong as the bellies of concrete houses, purple
as silk spins the mist through an open window.
The knees of service filled his belly and his brothers,
he held his body up, two curved wooden boats
thrown at the feet of the seats where the foreigners sat,
their heads fell back as he pulled out the spare change
hide from their pockets. He is the one who taught me
anything rich deserves to be paid, heavy praise
creams and serums, anything plumping and plumping
cracks. He taught me to wet my own knees
for lemon and sun dollar coin, soft and clean
like his it could not be. My earliest memories,
balloon in his bathtub, shaking his lower legs and arms
in dish-soap bubbles from pumice punch
& the promised slap of soothing oil—we learn to soothe
what hurts Soft that cannot be soothed.
