Dermis
The lower or inner layer of the two main layers of cells that make up the skin
This week, my daughter's hair is
a bilious shade of green.
It has been pink, purple,
marigold, indigo;
emo black (worn with
shroud-white makeup and
an expression of studied boredom).
For one, single, disorienting
month it was a brown
that might have been natural.
"You should take
better care of your body," I say.
She tells me hair is
not body, but by-product
like toenails, or snot.
I eschew the obvious
green-parallel comment
to be sententiously obvious
elsewhere. I remind her
that skin is the largest organ, as
my glance pierces like the spikes
in her nose, her lip, her eyebrow.
She sighs, adjusting her collar to cover
the tattooed fritillary that nestles
on the brink of take-off,
in the junction of neck
and shoulder.
It is, this tattoo,
an undeniable masterpiece.
A slick, black ribbon forms
The scalloped edge of the forewing,
the trailing sweep of the hind;
it is studded with vivid orange ovals
and frames a segmented cerulean centre
shaded with delicate gradations
like an old master.
The wing is, just faintly,
shadowed.
And, when I look at it,
though I try to see beauty instead,
I can only picture a needle,
jabbing into my daughter
hundreds, thousands of times,
stabbing through
epidermis to dermis.
I see beads of blood.
I see my own failure
To protect.
Silence billows between us,
like steam from the kettle.
The air is full of
not-quite-discernable droplets of
past arguments, said and resaid.
She slides a mug in front of me.
"Trim milk," she says,
waving this evidence of self-care
like a flag of truce.
She rests, like her
butterfly, still, but poised
for flight.
Of course, I capitulate.
My clumsy hands
cannot hold her.
This poem is part of a group under development, entitled "anatomy", and seeking to explore relationships, emotions and interactions through metaphors related to the body