Mother did my hair today and told me I looked beautiful
'mon cheri, tres de soleil'
and sometimes I do understand what she means,
when I catch the gaze of the farmhands
or even the older boy who lives down the road.
But sometimes, all I can focus on
are the little pieces of skin
hanging on the edges of my fingernails.
They derive from the pricks and pokes of the needlepoint,
these days this being one of the only activities that brings me true peace.
Even sitting in this flower bed
in my favorite powdery blue dress,
I can only be reminded of my beauty
by the reassuring words of my mother
or those male gazes.
And sometimes I do feel like a brat,
because I get to enjoy the countryside of France,
the smell of the leaves in the spring breeze,
the leisure of this needlepoint -
but still, I am just focused on my fingernails.
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