And now, nearing my sixth decade, finally I can live inside my skin after I've shed its coverings— peeled off childhood's white cotton socks embroidered with a yellow residue of scabs; folded sleeves that kept the bruises hidden. The lifting of sheets, no longer a violation. A skirt hem without aftershock or tremor. Let me sleep with one hand under the pillow and the other open to what might stream from a window. Without drowning.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.