What would it feel like
to slip from my skin
as easily as an orange
absconds its peel,

or the way a hibiscus petal,
steeped in warmth,
cedes its essence
for my afternoon tea.

Is it like the single thread
of hair looped around
your index finger that pulls
freely from the scalp,

or the snake that slithers
from its brittle ghost
that haunts the corner
of my woodshed?