He starts with my still-warm hymen,
eases his fingernails under the membrane,
peels it like you peel protest from a tongue;
lays the crescent-shaped pink flesh flat
on the table, slowly whitens it
with pinch by grainy pinch of salt
to absorb water from the words
— vowels shrivel, consonants choke.
He pegs out the skin to dry on the front lawn;
scrapes the surface with a blade, shaves off
any morphemes that linger — 'un' especially.
Neighbours watch but none see; God
bless the work there, Timmy!
The hide is ready on day twenty-eight,
the day he and I, unusually, played tag.
I wonder about the mud; a mystery
until I see him measure my leggy strides,
regular as stitches through the orchard's path.
Unwilling to appear ungrateful, I
am unforthcoming when I wear the red shoes;
the left a round-toed, flat lace-up,
the right a killer heel.
from the book THE UNTIMELY DEATH OF MY MOTHER'S HENS/ Southword Editions
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Traditional image of Emily Dickinson against the background of a geometric quilt
"Emily Dickinson Escapes"

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