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{shedding} jessica thummel Her shoulders are bare, littered with freckles from last year’s swim. They shift into a map of years. The faded spots blend until they are nothing when scrutinized. The darker more recent specks glow like rich blemishes. I fear that they will rub off on my hand when I trace my finger along her spine. I count, one, two, three, four, connecting the dots. Her ribcage expands, goosebumps ripple. Take them all, she says. I start slowly, peeling each freckle one by one. It will take a lifetime this way. Faster, she breathes. Both palms sand across her skin. Layers shed away, like bruised petals on the floor. I rest my lips in the crease between her scapula and spine. She smells new. My tongue now covered like leopard hide, holding her new and old freckles, swirls slowly. |
