I’ve been biting my nails
For as long as I can recall.
For years they were slivers
Of white, on pink,
My friends and parents
Would badger me,
In the nicest possible way,
For them to be long as the Yangtze.
Then one day, a few weeks back,
Everyone stopped noticing.
After fifteen years
My short nails were permissible.
And I stopped biting,
I noticed this afternoon.
I looked down as I wrote,
And the slivers were broadened,
Not the waning but the waxing moon.
When I started this poem,
They were almost to my fingertips.
Now my teeth have been at work,
And once again they are
Chips, slips, strips, a lunar eclipse.