Grace.

I am a free floater
on the cusp but never in one place
skirting the edges of ponds like dragonflies
avoiding the roots and tubers because
they cling.

Come spring I shed my scalp, my skin
proclaiming to you a sign of all things new
but asking for the same green-eyed answers
at every new year and

now my tattoos are razor sharp
but I fear the day when they will fog over
my bellybutton dandelion fuzz blown off
windmills spinning
anchor unchained
and I reply:
It just is.

Trace them, she shows ink into inky night.
Space them with your fingers;
I might tell you what they mean
in the darkness
followed by the sound of rain.
If you're lucky. You might kiss my lips, you know.

The world is iron fist
I hope my body becomes a soft cushion
for all I know;
stroke my head, it's a porcupine making love.

Our eccentric mother will reply at the end of the day,
it just is.

Oh for more.