Poetry by Amy Rose Lafty

              ​renee. CC



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Why I hate the phrase mani-pedi
after Natalie Diaz

It’s the mid 90’s and I am one teal wind-
breaker away from the crowd that promises me I can be 
more than drunk dad, sad mom, one-bedroom apartment.

Not that the girls I want to be actually talk to me, but they flash 
their clean white Reeboks at cheer practice, line their monied
wrists with leopard scrunchies, slide Lauryn Hill into their discmen -- 

priceless clues that tell me what to do 
to be worthy of their clear malt liquor Fridays and note-passing Mondays. 
I register their mid-math test nail tapping as morse code for meet us at the nail bar, 

and because adolescent me, raised-on-welfare me, doesn’t know the difference 
between salons and survival, I look my mom in her nickel eyes and tell her 
I won’t spend her “last ten dollars” on anything but lunch. 

But I run straight for that new swirl technique, you know, the one 
where they dip one nail in three different colors: pink, yellow, neon green. 
I choose silver for the other nine, thinking the whole time that my mom won’t 

let me starve till three. But my crumbless spot in the cafeteria on Tuesday, 
and my grumbling stomach in Accounting on Thursday, teaches me 
that even a mother is no match for hunger. 

So now, when my friends ask me, saves-every-last-
penny me, to join them for mani-pedis, I hate how they chop off
the ends of the words, like they can afford to be so cool.




Amy Rose Lafty is a poet, momma, former educator, and baker. She earned her Master of Arts from The Bread Loaf School of English and lives in Delaware County with her husband and two wildly energetic children. Her work can be found in Horse Egg Literary. Find her @arlpoetry on Instagram.
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