By Anita Tanner
My daughter says the best gift
for Christmas was painting
four daughters’ nails—
not figures frescoed
on massive walls
or pastoral scenes sketched
on canvas
but eighty ovals brushed
brilliant,
cotton balls scrunched
between toes—
and, oh, the talk while waiting.
After mom’s funeral,
nothing more we can do,
our eyes heavy and weary,
my daughters and I
stretch out on a bed
while I paint their nails.
During these elongated moments
I forget where I am
and why.
I think I see portraits
in miniature,
women who came before
and those yet to be,
cameos in relief,
seraphim and cherubim
hovering near small moons,
icon faces of saints,
each oval a token,
a passage.
