6.19.2009

Skin Trade

Skin Trade


Mother,

there is always a market for flesh
even now—

     sunlight lost in thorns—
they are hungry for us
make ordinary what is not
     dying—
              the innocent know this.

they reach back
      future to memory
                     faces repeating themselves

     a lime-green inch worm
     toiling over jumbled foot stones

in the membrane
               the breathing cage
there is no short cut to the old cities
in the necessary air

I am sitting in a chair—
          imagine me
I move my right hand—
          move yours from the dirt

touch me—

it is easy,
this regeneration,
        a habit natural as spring
we the living have come to—
expect it.

you know it is a gift
the last thing
the dying pup saw from the heap
after they skinned everything
but her eyelashes.

asha