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.

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