Donna Vorreyer

CATASTROPHIC MOLT


It begins with an itch,
a mystery inside
the skin that begs
a stripping.
One by one, I pluck
out my defenses,
drop each
feather to fallen.
Now without armor,
I shift myself
to statue
for a long
stillness. Sister
to the king

penguins, stoic
in my waiting.
They stand alone,
unable to feed,
await new
suits to preen
and keep them
safe beneath
the waves. I bide
my time until
the lab reports
return benign.



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