REGENERATION

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There’s a candy wrapper and an unused match

on the bathroom floor. A covert picnic,

abandoned. I’ve come here to press my face

against the cool white tile. Summer is ruthless

today in its death throes. Where hurricanes can’t

touch land, the earth quakes. Where the flood water

doesn’t rush in, the earth burns. How

should I reinvent myself in the this exodus

from one season into the next? This liminal space

where even the mirror is a blank uncertainty.

I travel with less baggage these days, casting

ballast off like sin. Even my bones

grow lighter. I should be densely built

for the long winter; I am the dry ligaments

of a skeletal wing. A thing of parchment,

exhalation, the cellular memory of flight.

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