Calloused

My mother used to reckon the smoothness of my feet.

In a shallow salmon tub hers would bathe 

Scrubbed by that strange moon rock thing.

And I could never understand- For what? 

For smoothness? For the image of me?

She used to say I had hair “to die for”.

Golden, lit by the sun, textured by chlorine.

In the sink she would rinse that magical dye

Once aired dry her hair a close refection of mine.

But if you told her she looked pretty, she would not accept it. 

I loved it when she clipped my nails.

I built an impressive collection of the dead cells. 

But soon school taught me they were a meal of the cockroaches-

And that I was weird-

so I disposed them quickly.

Thereafter she made me cut them on my own,

Although the click was different by my own hand.

I stopped wearing shoes outside

When she began her refrain of “no.”

Only to scold me when I wore just dirt indoors

So she would tell me to wash my feet.

And I noticed they were calloused.

But smoothness was no goal of mine.

The strengths and lengths of my hair were tested

As I made the golden tresses disappear.

My head quickly travelled the color spectrum

Which ended in short black.

And when I let it grow again 

It was not as golden as before.