Casing

My knuckles are stiff today.

The dip is a thick, hot milk

that smells like nothing at all.

I lift my hand out

and wait for the air to take it.

It hardens into a glove,

a cloudy, second skin

that holds the shaking still.

Then I move my thumb

and the first crack happens—

a dry snap,

shedding the shell in the dark.