the candent core of summer lodges itself at the base

of my throat like a tumor that won’t let go

but anneals itself slowly into new seasons.

 

again and again the year repeats like

a tick, a habit that serves no purpose but

to comfort itself. it’s self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

after I shower, I examine the body for new

bruises. splashes of moss green on my shin,

magenta on the foot, a beautiful garnet on my right asscheek.

 

all my old bodies rest in the corner – unhung and unattended to.

no matter how many times we move I never forget them.

I like to remember who she used to be, the different

 

versions people still like to refer to.

there are so many skins – some burnt or ashen

 or stretched like leather, coming all the way from the homeland.

 

this isn’t so bad, I tell her, though she cannot hear me

as I get ready to shed another casing,

wriggling around – a feral animal.

 

when it is done, I look again.

the dry heat is palpable in waves in the distance.

I am a mirage, an oasis – the moment you close in you’ll realize

 

I was scarcely even here.