Ananke

In a room on the edge of the desert

I shed my skin

and the skin under the skin

and all the bones that keep me bound

to this place.

Start over, tell it again.

In a room on the edge of the desert

I shed my skin

and catch blood between the cracks

of my scales.

There is no light in the sky.

Again, now.

In a room on the edge of the desert

I shed my skin

and see the clouds gleaming in a tight,

teasing sort of way,

twinkling like laughing,

always moving on and on.

Things do not stop here.

Things do not know how to stop.

Again.

In a room on the edge of the desert

I shed my skin

and ask questions:

At what time will the sun rise?

Why do I do

before I can think of what doing means?

How does it feel

to have a mother?