Julene Tripp Weaver
My Skin That Holds Me
My skin is not a bubble gum pop
it does not blow out with my breath
round and big and pink
to the size of a planet
then pop, and we all die.
No, my skin does not explode—
it is not Bazooka-sweet—more
a mild smoked-salt.
The itch is worst when I try to sleep,
activated it jump-starts, this spot
then that, she means well—a voice,
find stable skin
a calf, or a thigh free from eczema,
rest your attention there—any
spot with no neuralgia, no dermatitis.
But this skin
wants my nails, my trusty wood back-
scratcher (cheap from Chinatown),
before she’ll eventually calm down
let me rest.
A constant crier, like a newborn wanting
more, not a calm sea, rather a restless
neonate calling me back to these parts
I barely know—
bringing me home to my agitated
insides—I try to appease; I bring her
creams, thank her for holding me,
for not exploding.
She accepts my offers, the best lotions
money can buy, eventually she lets me
sleep—these miles of skin
that hold me.
Julene Tripp Weaver is the author of a chapbook and two full-length collections. Her latest, Truth Be Bold: Serenading Life & Death in the Age of AIDS (Finishing Line Press, 2017), was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award for Bisexual Nonfiction, and won the Bisexual Book Award for the Best Bisexual Poetry Book, as well as four Human Relations Indie Book Awards. Her work is online at The Seattle Review of Books, Voices in the Wind, Antinarrative Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, MadSwirl, and Writing in a Woman’s Voice. Weaver is a psychotherapist in Seattle, WA. You can find more of her writing at julenetrippweaver.com.
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