Molting Season

this strange habit of

the gods to require

the last moments of

transformation to

occur alone pressed between

the modern equivalent

of gethsemane's stones

while medusa would

have me hissing about

her head a slither

from her mind

with the others as a

wig of protection

while eve would ask

me to talk slowly and

precisely and carefully

about her desire for

self-knowledge

and conquest

while cleopatra having

failed in each royal

marriage having sacrificed

these mighty kingdoms

for nothing would

pat my head

like a pet and taunt me

in her prayer

for a romantic death

by venom

and all i need

to be

for this

one time

is asclepius's

strong

healing

staff

culling the

seed from

the chaff

and all i

believe

in this moment

is this failing

cracking

skin

covering

my long twisted

body must

be shed

rubbing

against fallen

branches and

unseen

garden rocks

and these

dull patches

covering my eyes

must peel

off and go

so i might

see for

the first time

what i love

so i might

stand

above

the grass

as in

the legends

and for

a time

feel something

again