Her hands are like creamy milk chocolate
with a rich Hershey's syrup tread mark scar
running diagonally down the back of one
naturally shaped oval nails
which she polishes with a clear coat of Revlon's Natural
as the two of us sit on her bed and watch the 11 o'clock news

The middle finger on her right hand
juts out
not allowing her to make a fist
glass stuck from wild teenage days
when she used to leap from table to table
at her sisters' weddings
not allowing it to grow
forever deformed

We never remember exactly
what we watch
at night on the news
I remember her questions
about the pronunciation of "woman"
which she pronounced
as a Middle Eastern country
unconsciously dropping the "w"
as peals of laughter escape my mouth
she tries to cover hers
with her right hand
the middle finger,
shorter than the rest,
sticking out

And to me
she is perfect