Jenna Hren
As yours, my skin boils
A scab picked over
My whole body bleeding
Skin the red
Of some rancid apple
Mealy and malicious
I have skinned an apple
And seen blood gush out
“As yours, my skin boils”
5 am peeling
Of lips and oranges;
Scabs
Torrential pooling in result
In requiem of self
As the oranges
Making windchimes
Afternoons float on
A mourning dove’s song
My little project broke
Glass bottle breaking
On my mothers carpet
Shards lie under her
Bare christmas tree
Void of glean and pooling
Turn on that faucet
And let the dam break
On my face
Run now away
As to not flood my family
Or drown so publicly
Throw apples at my bruised
Cheeks and sliced thighs
As mine, my skin boils
Stratified out and separate
No comparisons to be made
No romanticizing and parallelling
None of the apples
Or the oranges
None of the peeling and slicing
There were no boils on her skin
When her lungs were being scared
Only a towel beneath her cheek
Ovens heat faces
Basements devour light
My mothers skin knows the sun
My fingers tap cold
Unidentifiable in such fog
I feel no comfort when she grabs my hand
I grab back
And after some moments leave
Knowing some fault lies here
As mine, my skin boils
Over with renewing shame
Something to be peeled
Something that cannot remain