Skin? What kind of skin? The translucent, permeable, that barely protects? The skin of the fruit that blushes when ripe, then bruises when handled too eagerly? The skin we call our own that longs for touch, and sometimes armor?
What about words we weigh, say, covering feelings like stretched parchment or brittle papyrus?
We skin our knee and remember our mortality. We hurt someone’s feelings, and find our reckless, fleckless faultlines, our skin-over-bone awareness.
The skin of the mirror is wrinkled by warped time. Oh, time, time, what kind of skin is that? It lets too much through—consequence’s harsh rays.
Oh, time, the skin of all things! Even our planet is subject! Its gracious, spacious, vulnerable circle of turning, tuning itself to the orchestra of darkness and light—lyrical spherical cycles!
Written in response to Writing 201’s Day 3 poetry prompt—skin, prose poem, internal rhyme.