Marian is a retired psychotherapist and lives in Madison County. After a forty year hiatus, she began writing again, both poetry and prose. She's had work published in Passagers and Main Street Rag.
Remains
My skin is loose.
I step out of it with ease,
drawing its dry edge
over my thighs,
sliding both arms free.
I do not strain like snakes
who rub on stone and tree
to gain their freedom
inch by inch but slip
out quick. What’s left
a boy will find and hang
beside his bed,
where once he tacked
two brown cicada shells,
a stink bug,
a dragon fly.
"See my grandmother,"
he’ll insist, leading
visitors to his room.
He’ll place their fingers
on my skin."Just feel
how soft she is," he’ll say,
then stick a finger in the holes
that were my eyes
and nose
to prove they’re gone."These
were her toes," he’ll say
and count them
one by one.
When a month
or two has passed
he’ll let me go,
replace me
with a moth’s wing,
a mouse’s bone.
When visitors arrive
he’ll take their hands
and lead them to his room.
"See my grandmother," he’ll insist
and lay his fingers on my skin.
"Just look how soft she is."
He’ll stick a finger
in the holes that once were
eyes and nose to prove
they’re gone, then point
"These were her toes,"
and count them
one by one.
When a month or two
has passed he’ll let me go,
replace me with a moth’s wing
or a mouse’s bone.
