Rose sorbet

A poem about a love that brought a boy to his knees

Time to let this one go. It’s a memory that comes to me now and then. I’m sitting at my mum’s feet, doing her nails because she can’t bend to reach them anymore.

I’d remove the old lacquer, press back the cuticles, file, shape and apply her favourite shade of Rimmel polish.

Then moisturise her swollen legs to soothe the broken skin. The full service.

I fulfilled this duty with mild reluctance at the time, no doubt because it wasn’t the sort of thing that young boys did in the 90s … or any era.

But the gesture now means something different to me as a man without a mother.

🥀🥀🥀

Whenever I knelt at her feet

Swollen, cracked and calloused, I was embarrassed

The boy with an emery board and pungent pink polish

Prising apart toes, pressing back cuticles

Sculpting nails now thickened, brittle or barely there

Coats of glossy Rose Sorbet cloying the air

I couldn’t see a man in the manicure

Until I dreamt and saw him bent

In loving service of a mother so she felt like a lady

A tender ritual of precious beauty, let it echo eternally

🥀🥀🥀

You can read a few more of mine here.

Have you been in early experimentation mode with poetry? Tell me about it.