Shed

Snakes were found curled into a ring

at the center of a grainy desert.

A stillness so complete it looked deliberate,

as if some higher hand had placed them there

to warn the rest of us just

what happens when you don’t adapt.

No one knew how they got there.

There were no tracks, no water,

just the quiet rumor of movement

that stopped mid-sentence.

The snakes became a riddle

for every pilgrim passing through.

A sign that transformation

can burn you alive

if you wait too long to begin.

I think about them sometimes,

when my own tongue feels dry

and my skin itches to be gone.

The world around me

is cracked and hissing,

and I keep walking anyway;

sand in my mouth,

words tumbling out like stones.

They tell me to stay the course,

as if the course isn’t circular.

As if shedding your skin

means you never really escape it.

I’ve left pieces of myself

in parking lots,

in old notebooks, and

under someone’s fingernails.

Maybe I’m circling too.

not toward death,

but toward the moment

I finally stop mistaking endurance

for evolution.

When the wind rises,

I can almost hear them;

the desert snakes,

whispering in their second skin,

don’t wait too long

to become yourself.