because I can no longer feel my feet.
Was it a trick of genetics or a magic potion
that made my fingers into feathers or fins
ready for a different kind of escapade?
My body is slowly giving itself away
from this universe. It sparkles, sometimes sparks,
in this alien air. And I can have the hair I always wanted,
long and blue, the kind that thrashes behind me
with its own anima. Maybe shiny scales.
If I’ve become unrecognizable, I’m okay with that.
I’m happy to leave behind my misadventures,
live inside someone else’s warm-lined skin.
I’ll arrive with a suitcase of snakes and silks,
a map to a new evolution, a sky full of discovery.
Painting by Anne Bachelier