Gloves on My 40th Birthday
At the beauty parlour, my hands were made such a fuss
cuticles like dark clouds pushed back
see the half polished moon and those white dots the stars,
my hands the milky way.
A hard labour of coarse ointment lifting layers, lifeless
skin flaked from my hands birthday
brought to memory when walking along coastal paths
sand emulsified with water.
Drying, patting and sweet smells of Seadrift, hand cream
squeezed gently finger tips reach a heightened heartfelt pulse
the pink nail varnish takes time as the spotlight
focuses in.
Then walking home afterwards, marvelling the softness
textured nature in fields spring lambs bleating?
I had embraced so easily slipping into cream coloured
suede gloves.
Johanna Boal lives in Beverley, East Riding of Yorkshire. She has had poetry published in Blowing Raspberries (Belfast Magazine) Galway Review, Ireland, Poetry Space, Bristol, OpenMouse, Poetry Scotland and more.