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
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.
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