Angela Louise Powell and Katie Eva Ryan
Your skin is made of brass. I polish you once a year, the day before Easter, after the death but before the resurrection. I rub cleaning fluid into your surface with an old shirt, worn too thin to mend, wadded into a mass. I am wiping out the marks of fingers, the slow build-up of time. Once a year this skin is unrippled.
Your skin is made of wood. I take a square of yellow sandpaper and ca-
ress you in circles, roughing you into smooth. You shed your outer layer, and are lighter. I rub linseed oil into your pores. I carry you down to the river and set you rocking. I push you away. You drift out, uncertain, carried by the tide. The river laps at your edges.
Your skin is made of cloth. I run a hot iron over, crackle and hiss, never paus- ing too long for fear of scorches. I press your creases out. For a moment you are blank and perfect. I fold you up. I put you in a drawer. You are silent in the dark, pressed in on all sides.
Your skin is made of wax. I crown you with a flame. Beads of sweat begin to glisten. They grow, they merge, your head is a pool. From the top down you become liquid, you slither and slump into gnarled roots. I let you trickle over my fingers and turn opaque and crack. You are a new shape. You forget what you used to be.
Your skin is made of light. When it touches my skin we both glow rosy. I move right through you.