The Eighth of August

poems from the north, day 5

Searching the treetops— photo, my own

Patterns emerge
as I watch diagonals
crosshatching their way
through my viscera.

I search for new skins
to slip into
but they’re floppier
than a selkie can ponder.

Change drops from my shoulder,
shattering limits
that begin and end
in shaded mirrors.

I want to believe —
but the tone’s wrong
where your name sits
in the recesses

of a tagua nut,
who told no one at all
it’d been waiting
to be carved.

If you’d like to follow my vacation journey, there’s more below:

The Seventh of August