by Emma Hyche

There is only this
when I stand solemn as a nun
in the yellow glow of the kitchen light,
hearing sirens and a dog howling
licking sandy smears of cookie batter
from all of my fingers,
tongue skating over knuckle
like breeze bunching
the dark surface of a lake
and the world is enough
to unravel me.
Sometimes I think about
stepping out of my skin
husking myself like new corn
when the world says stay
and I say how much longer
to be in this body like a dress
ill-fitting, flour-spattered,
stained with vanilla in spots
like many tiny wounds.