Sleepskin

There’s a skin from which I’d like to slip
to be more here. Here, but greener. Here but
limber. Clarified like a lake whose deep down
stones seem close enough to touch. When I
found the baby snake, it was lying on the road
and I lay down beside it in companionable
solidity. Daisies rising from our peripheries,
the shapes of clouds in the above. Which,
I whispered, do you like better? A cloud
against blue nothing, or a cloud
against another cloud? The snake
didn’t move. We lay a long time
on the road like this, until I touched the tip
of that snake’s tail the way I touched
the arm of the sleeping man at the train’s last
stop. Strange to touch a stranger even
briefly like this, my fingertip
on the living skin of you coming back
to the world again. Startling awake. It’s
okay, you’re okay, I wanted to say, to both,
just be careful sleeping on the road—
the day’s soft dust, the hum, the heat,
another hour hard to leave behind.
Seems like nothing’s coming, and then
it’s here, it roars—

Author of the article

Kelly Terwilliger is the author of two collections of poetry, A Glimpse of Oranges and Riddle, Fish Hook, Thorn, Key. Her work has appeared in journals such as december magazine, Main Street Rag, Cider Press Review, and others. She teaches and performs as an oral storyteller in public schools.