A biker in the checkout line has cursive
on his arm: He has removed our sins as far from us
as the west is from the east. In purple ink. His skin’s
like parchment from a calf’s cleaned hide: soaked,
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dried, stretched, then scraped with a crescent-
shaped knife. Treated with lime to make it accept
the writing. All my nights are like papyrus,
drenched in tears, a wash of disobedience
staining my blank ease. How craven,
wretched, wasteful I’ve been, trusting the sad
needs of flesh, endangering the small animal
of spirit. And yet, a hungry lion
on the veld will prowl elsewhere
if the wind shifts. Save my skin, dear wind.
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