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{exoskeleton} rebecca van laer Beelzebub to his grandson: Locusts are blessed, they shed their old selves like cast-off clothing, sheaths through which only the wind now sings. If only we could molt our skin, new selves spared from old cuts, then inarch in sheets cleansed of salt, cells, junk. Careful, though, I hold my cotton close, covering my limbs. A story: once, in a flurry of fingers, I lost a pair of panties out a bedroom window, elastic waistband sending them towards treetops. I looked, but no purple peeked in the morning sun. I walked home, hopeful in my dress, breeze against me – and somewhere, against my lost cover, hooked on a dry branch. |
