Skin
i leave behind my mortal sheets,
sliding out these trunks in every mercurial
season.
pick me as a twig.
my fingers have no balls at the ends;
they point to the sun
with anorectic fingers
that paddle back air
with disrobing effects of a chill.
i slip off this ivory dress and adorn ivory bone with
jade.
"Over youth and you become jaded!"
so you exclaim.
crevices run from my eye-wells
like streams
that resemble crow's feet.
my sense of smell and touch are dumbed-down.
my new habit is passing windows just to see my
thighs.
and now I am human with speckled nails.
and now I wear my robe of skin.
Poetry by Christin Brennan
Read 1006 times
Written on 2007-10-13 at 23:42
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