At dusk

I delight in skin
as my twenties
Yanked around
the rock;
as the fox—
who has no hunger
for He whom She
cannot deserve—
without a winter
to mandate such a meal.
So the snake slithers safely
on yellow straw and slides
beneath a crumbling foundation
that used to be a home.
The skin, crusted;
The skin, cracked;
The skin, laid head over toes—
tied in a knot, where
finger prints meet tiny holes.
The skin of my twenties,
lay back in the brush—
for the beasts of winter
to nosh upon.
And I, grinning sideways,
tattoo poison labels on my back;
I lay in wait
for the hungry cannibals
to come take my bait;
The skin of my twenties;
The experience I left behind.
I do not need this shield anymore,
because I have finally
learned to bite.

written on 11/13/2010 by: Matt Kane