Spit Shine
My mama grabbed my chin and stared.
She licked her rough right thumb.
She moved it hugely toward my face
and homed in on a crumb.
I cringed and tried to hide my face.
She yanked me to my toes,
and her spit-icky thumb scrubbed me
until a bright-red rose
bloomed where Spaghetti-Os once clung
along my pimpled cheek.
I fought against her hook-like hands
till I felt my bladder leak.
She rubbed me red, scrubbed me raw
and buffed me till I bled,
before she stepped back half a step,
admired her work, and said,
"You look a little better now!"
Well, thank you, Dr. Jekyll.
"That scrape'll heal, and anyhow
I never liked that freckle."
Andrew Hudgins teaches at the Ohio State University. His most recent book of poems is Ecstatic in the Poison.