Raw

I stand before the silvered glass

and watch the white-edged islands pass.

The cotton shirt is like a blade

against the mess the summer made.

It curls and lifts in jagged strips,

the heat still burning at the tips.

Translucent flakes of me are shed

like shavings from a pencil head.

They litter all the deep blue mat,

thin and dry and gray and flat.

I’m pink and new and strangely small,

trying not to touch the wall.