The Weight of Skin

The radiator clicks its metal tongue,

waking up for the first frost.

The smell of singed lint hits the back of my throat,

a dry, domestic incense.

I looked behind the fins today.

A gray, felted pelt clings to the pipe,

woven from the hair I shed in August

and the skin I left behind while sleeping.

It’s heavy for something so light.

A soft, gray history of staying put,

gathering the parts of me

that I didn't even know were gone.