From her blue armchair I can still hear mom yelling for me
to massage her feet with lotion. It had to be done
with cocoa butter, that was the only way. I made her heels soft
with my little, brown hands. I didn’t want to smell what was left
of the sweat between her toes. I picked out
the lint from the wigwam socks she even wore in July.
Fifteen minutes spent rubbing each pale foot. I rubbed harder,
then she moaned. From the couch her husband watched, but didn’t try
to touch her. Then she made me take it from her—the pink
razor I used to shave the black hair on each of her pale toes.