They were beautiful once

She collected her first scar as a child.
A careless uncle stepped on her pinky,
Pressing it into a permanent but gentle hook.
Scalding water and burning pans have
thickened skin, dulled nerves.
We screamed in the bathtub, feet on fire
Her hands swirling in lava, coaxing us.

Her joints are swelled, hard now.
The wedding solitaire
sleeps in its velvet crevice;
she took it off before it strangled her.
Its replacement, with clustered sapphires,
a spider’s cataracts, shines dully
from caked Ivory soap.

Now her thumbs hook the steering wheel.
The fingers hang
in involuntary curves,
scalloped and pink,
pointing rudely to the pedals
and feet that have forgotten
which way to push.