We all cut ourselves in orange slivers and lemon squares. 

Everyone once dropped musty cherry blossoms in a creek-- rubbed
them between fingers like a perfume swab-- kissed the petal because
it tastes vaguely like skin-- wondering what skin tastes like
really without tongues-- maybe if we write poems about roses and daffodils our skin will
be sweeter-- unwrapped in holly-red throat-coat candies from pursed 
bulbs of in our handbags-- floating skin like a life boat-- like an SOS
SAVE OUR SKIN-- 

Everyone once tore apart a Styrofoam cup-- didn't know where
to hide the pieces-- thought about landfills-- thought about sea gull feet gruesome
gut patterns-- wanted to eat the flecks of foam out of shame-- laid them out
like continents playing Pangaea-- planned a vacation across the strait of 
Gibraltar-- played Indian on the islands-- made fire from the foam--

Everyone was once peeled the bark from trees and to find worms-- cowered before
kingdoms beneath our own skin-- wanted to put it back-- centipede cuticles dripped
in moss and morning-- pasted back their own skin with tongues and tasteless 
cough drops wrapped in Styrofoam-- coughed on the fragments-- crossed the stream
on a boat made from bark and cherry pits.