My Mother's Fingertips

For they used to grip the edges of the scorching bowls of soup,

For they used to knead the dough and imitate Jamie Oliver,

Sprinkling herbs and thymes over a Tesco-like pizza.

For they used to poke at my brow,

For they used to point at the zeros and circles on red-soaked papers,

Spiking whilst screwing her fingernails into them.

For they used to slide the bolt across the door.

For they used to set up the fingerprint recognition for the tablet,

Suppressing me with savage sanctions, such tyranny.

For they used to scrub my muddy sneakers.

For they used to squeeze the venom from my mosquito bites,

Serving me as I lay prone on the sofa with my feet splaying.

For they used to fasten the zip before I left home.

For they used to scratch my itchy back,

Shifting positions to achieve an equal effect.

For they used to soak the cotton wool with antiseptic,

For they used to place the sticking plaster,

Stabilizing my shuddering arms and stroking the cycling wound.

For they used to have callus formed on them,

For they used to lay on the pulse oximeters for inspections,

Stroking my palms on the white mattress.

My innocence, my insolence, my imprudence,

The pet phrases.

My negligence, my apathy, my oblivion,

The bafflement.