You can walk right out of your skin
and not notice it for years;
how you store jars of sunlight against the damp,
compulsively;
how your moulted tongue
stumbles over words that wrapped your childhood
in Tollywood candy floss.
Contrary to what they tell you,
a loss of being is not accompanied
by a loss of weight.
In fact, to compensate,
you add to yourself, little by little.
It’s called layering.
Until here you are at the edge of the road,
heavy in your winter coat,
suddenly marvelling at the miracle of your
knitted burgundy fingers, flesh
turned inside out,
curling, uncurling.