I imagine myself slithering out of my skin

*My old skin, crumpled on the ground.*

I gather it up, fold it in and over, fold it in
and over, fold it in and over. I roll it up
into the tightness of an ancient, unsprouted
seed.

I imagine myself digging deeply into
loamy ground, turning up handsful of soft,
gentle black earth. When my hole is deep
enough and dark enough, the hard pebble
of myself will lay there, warmly.

I imagine myself gathering the soil and
pushing it over my round, tight self lying
gently in the darkness. I am careful not to
pack in the loam and punch out all the air.
I leave pockets and bubbles of space, so
that I can breathe.

Womb-wet, I stretch. *My limbs, unfolding.*