apparently
a tortoise has nerve endings
in its shell
which itself is a modified breastbone
a skeleton on the outside
looking smooth and rough
it feels everything
in its actual bones
whereas i have only my skin
and where there is numbness
there exists dull pressure
like a weight through cotton
or a talk show host’s monologue
you can work on these exercises
to increase mobility
extend range of motion
reduce joint pain
hold
shear
twist
repeat
in the desert i traded my skin
for bones
and learned to eat bugs
when flipped on my back
i watched you cook me in the sun
the desert sky your big easy bake oven
Tag: skin
the skin you’re in (20171028)
stop picking at it
is good advice
the nail slips under
the edge of the brown, cracked scab
lifting
lifting slowly
watch the old coagulation
crease and sweat serum
as it rolls up
you’ll leave a mark
you’ll make a scar
why do that to your skin
once so soft so
[the insides of eggs are soft
but so are omelettes]
dig
dig
into flesh
not frantically
you’re not a beast
this is science
after all
a white coat
a bunsen burner
a double-blind
how many times
can you heal
over in the same spot
before the blood gives up
before the skin gives up
before the heart gives up
Day 16/30 of the Tupelo 30/30 Project (20170816)
this skin is
stretched so thin
it
has become
transparent….
——
Peel off the top layer and see what’s beneath. My poem skin is available to read at the Tupelo 30/30 project page.
ivory (20170609)
my thigh bone covered in scrimshaw
each coffee stained line of human ivory
a thin memory of us
of incidents on skin
philosophical dialogue #7 (20170603)
–do not confuse forward movement
with progress, he says
he cleans a fingernail
with the point of a knife
i huddle in a corner
all of my skin
curled in ribbons
at my feet
but surprisingly
there is not a drop of blood
–why is that? i ask
he shrugs
–just forward movement, he says
–but not progress?
he offers a smile, the first in hours
—let’s see about progress
after we’ve cut your
eyes free from those sockets
no new skin (20170531)
i have nothing
left to lift
not my hands
not my eyes
nor raise my ire
peace is all
overwhelming
turgidity
slowness that is stillness
unmoving like summer rain
or heavy syrup
heavy as the earth
beneath my feet
i shed my skin
one last time
with no intent
of emerging clad
in a new glistening
sheath
survival tip #4 (20170529)
i meditated until i couldn’t feel
my toes and succeeded
in reversing my skin
with my bones
it seemed such a shame to keep all
that armor on the inside
skin damage (20170329)
we wear each other like second skins
a tight fit in winter and spring
but in summer we peel apart
all too soon one of us is dragged
into the quick
threatening pain
scars
and blood
if freckles were the only damage
if only
silk (20170305)
i let the spiders under my skin
with the understanding
that there would be spinning
in my blood
yet
i did not anticipate
the delicate tattooing
of your face and your name
on the inside of my skin
invisible in daylight
but available under near darkness
marrow for pigment and sharpened
spinnerets for needles
the gentle humming put me to sleep
many nights and i dreamed
of ink and web and shattering glass
with the lights out but for
a single candle
you can read my skin
and find yourself
stitched in glittering filament
ancestor under the skin (20170226)
storing oxygen
in a pair of secondary organs
while swimming through my blood
it pulled itself forward on flippers
rough-hewn legs too slow
to evade an apex predator
but then
it broke through my skin
and had the new world to itself
Words and Feathers 