- Sue Proffitt
Snakeskin
Tissued ribbon. Something flayed
in the dust, the blinding burn of sun,
scorched bougainvillea petals,
hot red flares of hibiscus, scuttles
of lizards. Frayed rope flung
at my feet. Some unseen muscle
has sloughed itself free
even its eyes – yes – holding it
delicately (friable as flaking stone)
the small narrow head holds
two sockets, clear plastic capsules
snapped open – how can this be,
peeling your eyes away?
Imagine the seconds
before hardening, glistening
like calf-slicked after-birth,
a sudden hot wind flinging dust
in your eyes, fumbling away
gritted? No. You would close
them, risk temporary blindness
for clear vision, feeling not seeing
your molten skin set, seal you in
like a sheath before, fluid,
utterly new, eyes open
on a just-born morning
every flower ignited and
in a sudden flick and ripple,
leave your body behind.