The Skinner's Lullabye

The Skinner’s Lullabye

By the stream, in the dark,
I blunted my knives on my own thick skin
then sharpened them on my bones,
and went out to flense the world.
I went forward, and the surface of things,
hung in strips from my blade’s edge,
and I never looked back—
at the piled hides
or the trail of flesh, wet behind me,
until I came to the stream
at the edge of dawn.
I turned and saw nothing but whole things and
unstained ground,
and the last few scraps,
scurrying towards the shadows, reweaving
and my own old skin,
tattered and lonely.
I knelt and clutched it to me, a blanket,
and I laid down to sleep,
cradling my face in my hands.