Self-Portrait as Shedding
Odd palsies in the red
of a desert. Hives at the wrist,
anxiety like a heron
under my lung, winging up
openmouthed. There is no body
of water here, no mangroves
to hide in. Only insomnia,
stacked rattles stammering
loose in the tail’s slow
taper, scales also
worming away, a reminder
of this privilege: to reappear
whole, having indulged the strange bird
its hollow bones inside me.
-Carey McHugh
About the Author
Carey McHugh teaches writing at the College of Mount Saint Vincent. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, Smartish Pace, and Spinning Jenny.
