There's another skin inside my skin
that gathers to your touch, a lake to the light;
that looses its memory, its lost language
into your tongue,
erasing me into newness.

Just when the body thinks it knows
the ways of knowing itself,
this second skin continues to answer.

In the street - café chairs abandoned
on terraces; market stalls emptied
of their solid light,
though pavement still breathes
summer grapes and peaches.
Like the light of anything that grows
from this newly-turned earth,
every tip of me gathers under your touch,
wind wrapping my dress around our legs,
your shirt twisting to flowers in my fists.

 ~ by Anne Michaels
From:   The Weight of Oranges / Miner's Pond


SL said...

Geez, that just left me all breathless and befuddled! Beautiful!

red dirt girl said...

Hi SL!

I love it too - I keep re-reading it. It is one of those poems that keep sinking in deeper and deeper every time I read it.


bulletholes said...

I'm gonna go get me a flower-dy shirt.

red dirt girl said...

You do that cowboy and I guarantee some lady will twist it in her hands when you touch her ....!