Poems to my Skin

Inflammation

The fire is

an image of fire,

wound-voice

calling out, but not

the original wound,

which shirks inspection,

dissection,

interrogation--

criminal self

lurking under integument,

emerging wet, bloody.

Crusted over with shell--

parody of protection.

Sad self, weeping

through walls.

When protest is smothered,

fire goes underground.

Our Lady of Sorrows,

boss of neglected realms.

Distraction

I am an expert

in meditation,

able to take refuge

in sensation,

following the furls

of paisley

on a quilt, the varying widths

of the spaces between floor boards,

the dancing motes in a sliver

of late sun.

Able to find snags--

scabs,

dead skin--

to remove

with precise maneuvers,

divided attention.