Another Poem for the Christmas Season: At Twenty-Three Weeks

At Twenty-Three Weeks She Can No Longer See Anything South of Her Belly
Thom Ward

I'm painting my wife's toes
in Revlon Super Color Forty Nine.

I've no idea what I'm doing.
She asked me to get the bottle,

then crashed on our bed,
muscle-sore, pelvis-aching.

Lifting the brush, I skim
the excess polish across the glass,

daub a smidgen on her nail,
push it out in streaks

over the perfect surface
to the cuticle's edge.

I'm painting my wife's toes.
I've no idea what I'm doing.

The smell of fresh enamel
intoxicates. Each nail I glaze

is a tulip, a lobster,
a scarlet room where women

sit and talk, their sleek,
tinctured fingers sparkling the air.

[found in Keillor, Garrison. Good Poems. Penguin. 2002. 117.]