Emergence
My skin feels too tight must be shed sometimes
dogs tremble sometimes they do not but instead circle
nose to ground finding a place to bed my skin
holding on to memories like the thin bone clutch of
an old book papery pages flutter the cold of March the bite
of snow to bare toes the unexpected burning blood
demands a way out an owl in the window was it
a dream? yellow eyes looking in and sometimes the owls
feast on roadkill and sometimes they die my skin
a feather robe an earthen crock my skin clay and spit
a clutch of dry desert insect bodies holding a funeral
in the corner my skin an eyelid a toenail an otter’s fur
my skin an ash splint basket woven while still wet I
fold myself into myself let the sun shine take its time
let the rains return the coyotes cry in the long August night
my skin wet and cold with being
Janet Barry is a musician, poet, and photographer with works published in numerous journals, most recently Snapdragon, Third Wednesday, and Clementine. She has received several Pushcart nominations and holds degrees in organ performance and poetry.