Skinned - Green Mountains Review

photo by Nadine Shaabana

Skinned

In the chemical light of afternoon,

our bodies curl over phones,

sprawl slightly toward windows,

holding empty forms,

as if it’s test day.

Once we were boys and girls.

A faded poster says we’ve shed

a thousand skins since then.

Outside in the street,

a road crew mends its yellow line,

drilling up the pitted asphalt like a long,

thin biopsy, one that refuses

to stop for summer,

or to tell us anything.

Driving over today, I spoke to my ex;

he recited my history,

reminded me of the old score.

But I don't know he says.

You may not be the same person.

In the exam room, I'm splayed

to the four directions,

they survey my shell.

Brothers and sisters, I see you

looking out from inside your casings.

Can you say what I am now?

In the parking lot,

a woman standing beside her busted car,

watching your looking-glass door,

tears in the seams of her face.

They will soak the pavement,

wet blotches spreading.

- Published in Green Mountains Review Online, May 2, 2017