Shawna Norton

Stripped

I am shedding layers of people
like the layers of skin
that peel from my fingers
when they’ve been worked,
strained,
put to good use.

Humbled hands, holding
more
than this bared body:
not stripped, but new
skin
exposed—
ready to weather.

 

Evening Commutes

When the sun shines in winter
it’s a different kind of light.
A brighter light, slicing
buildings and dividing streets.

But blazes are fleeting
and bright burns out.
Hushed into glow, leaves
the city in numbed silence.