Skin, this papyrus of years,
curls and flakes and flames.
We fire it out of boiling ovens,
we kindle the residue of meaning.
Kenning smells sweeter than lime,
more bitter than apple. These fruits,
once succulent, dry their tears
and suck mercilessly – coyotes
defending their little stamp of land.
Their bark is pale mellow,
distinct in sunset. Their cry
whispers like a shiver. It will
turn my skin cold; it will be the final heat.
Copyright 2010 TAWHITE
