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New Skin

  • Amy Nash 
  • 1 min read

When I heard my epidermis ticking like a time bomb.
When I heard him whisper
my name as he touched the soft parts.
When I heard my voice say “no.”
When I heard no one else around.
When I heard his laughter in another room.
When I heard the train
rumble along the tracks outside.
When I heard it takes 27 days for it to renew itself,
and I couldn’t wait that long to be free of his fingerprints.
When I heard the moon would be full again.
When I heard there’s a term for it— heard other women utter it out loud.
When I heard bark might be an option.
When I heard the branch crack under the pressure.
When I heard barred owls hoot and wail late at night,
I could not begin to tell who
cooks for you or me or anyone else.
I could only inspect my own brood patch
and hope to sky dance
under those reflected beams of light.

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