Her nails are smooth like the curve of apples
and their delicate passage from plate to mouth
mark almost visible lines of plaintive grace in the air;
bent knuckles hide strong, thin, Wedgewood bone
that do not crack or pop or creak like mine.
Mine are op-shop tack and kitsch and revel in
the brassy nagging of the dirt;
gaudy printed gloves, two dollar whore's enamel and
giant mugs splashed by sunflower patterns.
I am a candle, she is a chandelier
and yet, there is something democratic
in the tea, the flowers
and in the dying.