Shielding

The towel caught on a ridge

by the finger I use to point.

A yellowed, hardened bridge

at the base of the middle joint.

My mother had soft hands,

scented like lotion and soap.

But mine have met demands

at the end of a rope.

It’s a burial ground of feeling,

a thick, dead wall.

A way to keep from peeling

when I have to take the fall.