When I am done with this skin
when the elbows are frayed
the wrists threadbare
I’ll slide from my shoulders
breath, lips, tongue
yours
drawing the length in
With a light tug of
the knuckles
I’ll leave my fingers
growling, crying
deep gut chords
John Lee, Lead Belly
Joe Willie Wilkins
Rolling to the waist
I’ll shimmy down the hips
a tassel of children
some mine, some yours
one ours
and linger
an amputee’s ache
I’ll slip the cool
from my thighs, my calves
kick loose at the ankles
and drift
feet, meters, miles
scatting
Skap-a-dat-do-ee
good skin
Writing 