Heartland Society of Women Writers

When we enter the ephemeral 

Nail salon, we are struck

By her naked, acrylic nails, tapping against the glass.

Another: her pantyhose hugs against her folds, 

Slicked up with sink water as

Taught by her mother’s mother’s mother.

On another, mouth slightly agape, she naps 

While her feet

Are scrubbed raw of their histories.

Yet another, belly dropped and hands folded

On its peak, blows white bubbles

Up to the salon’s pink ceilings.

We can smell the spearmint mixing with the acetone, the

Comingling of perfumes and body odor.

It’s our washing station, our village 

Meal. 

We exit with trimmed

Cuticles and sharp nails,

Reflecting on the gossip

We overheard and the stories we

Created, rising and falling, rising and

Falling, like fingers waving goodbye.