by Linda Taylor

We get a new skin
every twenty-eight days,
the old dusting to earth.

More rarely, other cells
renew, shedding memories
as gone as light from stars.

We hoard and devour
the ones that stay, as when you eat
huckleberries till they fill the rim

of taste with their delicate mouths,
the bright indigo seeds.

Or when an orchid falls

from a waist or lapel
to a wedding dance floor– the swirl
of moving legs–and softly

blooms there to a hundred
scraps–raging grail, white
and purple death, as blood

rings through the elbows, fingers,
chests, to feed that whirling,
circle of the feet.


About the Author

Linda Taylor teaches literature and writing at Oglethorpe University in Atlanta.  Her poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, The Georgia Review, Nimrod, Black Warrior Review, Indiana Review, and other journals.  She likes singing folk music and playing the guitar.  When she can, she visits the Oregon coast.