Argan, shea butter, & castor. A thousand waysto soften, mist & moisture, but nothing to suppleknees: crease immune to chemical peel & heel mask,instrument of pray & beg. I cough up aerosolin wet white clouds, bleach them into beautyslick as slobbered bone. The Greeks thought nymphslived in the corrugated bark of ash trees, Oread beingswho weaned baby Zeus on honey & goat milk—my own ashen trunks are all hair & fairy-less,demanding endless nourishment, as I did,striking the butt of my spoon on the tableand willing my grandmother’s ladle to materializefrom steam. My grandmother, whose kneesare sandpaper, slabs of irrevocably hardened clay.Knees sturdy as the concrete guts of a house, purpleas silk drapes spinning off mites through the open window.Knees of service kept her stomach and her siblings’ full,held her body afloat, two creaky wooden boatscast at the feet of chairs where foreign men sat,their heads tipped back as she lapped the spare changesecreting from their pockets. She’s the one who taught meanything rich is worth paying for, praised heavycream & serum-whipped skin, whatever fills & fillsthe cracks. She taught me to soak my own kneesin lemon & a dollar coin of sunlight, tender & cleanas hers couldn’t be. My earliest memories,balloon-bellied in her bathtub, shying lower limbsin dish-soap bubbles from her fist of pumice& promised slap of pacifying oil—we learn to soothewhat stings. Smooth what can’t be soothed.