Skin Trade

Mother,

There is always a market for flesh
even now
sunlight 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