THE WEIGHT OF MY SKIN

BY DARLENE SCOTT

She says the man threatened her.
Salt stings the corners of my eyes

wider than usual with the index
crisscross of plaid, cracked leather

of his sneakers; dare in his pout; my wet
skin, heavy to the pumpkin flesh, his also

cracking; my lips viscous; tentative.
I am cadence, 180 strides per minute.

Channel 6 will ask for a word or witness
to account the sprout of her limbs

near a bronze box, replica of the one in which
Henry Brown shipped himself to Freedom.

I give myself to morning nearly every day;
today, the breeze interrupts thick humidity.

But fails my skin.

In autumn, even, the weight of wet skin;
in the store choosing dinner; I-64 to errands

so heavy my Human wilts under it.
We should both know this.

Her petition finds me an excuse
of sweat and anonymity.

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