I change my skin like my stockings
run my fingers across a garden
of bent-necked hyacinths
from my elbows--
the barbed-wire fence--
cut my side and bleed 
into the tongue of my coffee mug.
Never felt a home in these bones
saran-wrapped in fiberglass--
I've made myself a vase.
In third grade my teacher asked me 
why I pull at the edges of my waist 
bands-- of my pants--
I wanted to tell her that no
matter what I feel I'm being constricted
restricted-- fat like pecan swirls--
like bear claws-- like sour cream--
fat like wrists-- like the tambourines
and nectarines inside my cheeks--
the cantaloupe curl of my belly--
like my like sun-ripe--
like fat mornings-- like the fat
vase that serves as my case--
my casket my skin--
my coroner and my cab
driver to a match stick
my melon rinds--  
my skin.
my skin.
my skin.