watching a snake shed its skin

my mom used to help me into stockings
one leg at a time. my steadying hand on her shoulder.
a new flesh clung to me. i got runners often
& learned to pull the tights up
higher to conceal them under a skirt or a dress.
mostly, we didn't have bandaides. waited for gashes 
to turn jeweled in the air. 
i peeled wet gloves off 
& set them on radiator. january was grey.
i learned to drink tea. toe nails grew.
we bought a sleeping bag at the thrift store.
i crawled inside. makeshift chrysalis.
no change. hair clips.
discovered dead skin on the bottoms of my feet.
four to twelve times a year.
belly reptile. what is it like
to look up through the brush? peeling an orange
all in one piece & leaving the skin
in the yard as compost. 
the body can be a hallway.
my favorite nightlight needed a new special bulb.
we found it no where. my covers became less soft
the more i turned. a rock is a good place
to press. how does anyone know
the right moment. skin on my hands.
skin on my face. i banana open.
sweet muck underneath. i was ripe
as a canteloupe. a splash of nectar.
peeling off two knee-high socks
& laying them by the side of the creek
while i waded inside. how to we make sense
of our own body's departures?
when he looks at the skin,
translucent & baring his shape, 
what does he think of?