THE MECHANICS OF SHEDDING SKIN
CAYLIE HERRMANN
This is when you peel
out of your form, cicada-like; I
just turn
inside-out, collect your
husked
exoskeleton, carry it behind you
like a train. You
feel out your new body, I’ll
put the old one away
for safekeeping in a trunk
under the bed
with all the other
memories of our old
selves. Somewhere your
sister is getting married, her
hair woven
with chrysanthemums and lace. Somewhere,
your aunt peels the fuzzed skin off
of peaches, halves
and pits
them for cobbler. Somewhere, your mother
embroiders carnations onto a baby-blanket
for future
use. You reunite with
your newness, pinch
the fresh skin, shimmy your hips in
the mirror. And I mirror you, outside-in, learning
my own regrowth.
∘∘∘