Two Poems
Devon Neal

Knuckles

My mother taught me the importance of reactions.
I learned from her that your deepest secret
is your anger, your sadness, your hope.
She taught me you can curl your spine
inward, shoulders outward like knuckles,
your hips the sharp grind of scissors
and become this hardened thing against the world,
a fist, a blister, a jagged walnut,
thick and stubborn, the inside a mystery.

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Rehuman

I returned from the hospital stay the type of insect
that lives in the darkest cracks, hardened
by winter pressure, a runoff of December rain
sloughing my skin, my thin membranes, leaving only
tree bark skin, barbs of needle spines, limbs
eroded into treetop skeletons, eyes worn down
into black leather specks like a reverse constellation.
Finally home, hot clean shower water dug
into the creases of my crab-thick skin, cracking
apart worn black slabs of armor, moistening
the tender soil below. Steam fertilized sinew,
muscles growing like plump vegetables,
life returning like a pink sky. Sleep came next,
deep like a night swim, and I awoke the next morning
fresh, wearing human skin again.