​​

 

 

 

 

 

       With Kid Gloves

​

​​

I don’t want to form calluses

from the hard work

   of pushing the world away,

nor do I want the meddling of

kidskin gloves

button-noosed at my wrists.

 

What protection

        can these gloves give?

 

The kid,

once wrapped so tightly

           in her own leather,

still couldn’t resist

when the butcher muscled in

            and undressed her.

​

I want to slip off my gloves,

and let myself be tenderized

with each of life’s sharp elbows

                   nudging past.

​

If I’m ripped open,

I’ll take the tears as permission

     not bring out sewing needles

to deny such euphoric collisions!

​

Let my body

     become a well-traveled vessel,

a tattered dress traversed by wind;

when I thumb through a crowd,

I want each person pressed

through my abraded,

                split-leather skin.

​

Once laid bare

         by this divine flaying,

I want our ribs to lock together

like the antlers of

             two jousting bucks,

our organs to slither into bows.

I want our hearts quivering

cheek-to-cheek,

               sputter-blushing,

arterial arms circumposed.

​

And in the midst of this slaughter,

          I still won’t be through;

I want the thrust

of this feral living

   to knock my lusting bones askew!

 

Because when I succumb,

it’ll be to the weathering of

             a life lived in earnest.

Death will be the last bits of animal

                           worn away,

dispersed like pollen

               to dust every surface.​​​​​​​​​​​​​

​

I wonder now,

if this is why the kid gave her skin.

Her whole body degloved

                 to let the world in.