MELANOMA: THE POLITICS OF MY SKIN
One moment of quiet and I’ll be
able to think about stitches
without my skin crawling out
from under me, away,
like leather on my body.
As if it were not itself
a body that feels and is so vocal.
I have not learned that language
just yet to call myself
a native speaker: I haven’t lived there all my life—
there is still apart, and what is my life but this
here: skin, mine, having its revolution
demanding a seat at the table
and talking as equals, as different and part,