Molting

Supposedly, sin is usas marrow is: integral, inherited.They say it fills our bones.They say our mothers pass it onas we enter the world, screaming,already ashamed of our so-called grime.When I sit still, I can feel decadesof stifled sensations pulse & clawin my stomach.Generations of not talking about it,of sucking mint to quell the hunger.It's enough to wilt even the hardest-willedcreature: to pretend we are abovethe earth's brief pleasures. As ifwe are not just mammals, tryingto fit everything in beforethe deep green gulp of nighttime.Salvation issubjective. I find it in thegaps between teeth, tangled in hair,bubbling in a bottle of cheapsweet wine. It all feels like worship to me.So at twenty-one, hasty & hopeful,I attempt to break the cycle.I stand on the steps of the town church &sing, shout, curse, laugh, stumble, celebrate,want.Everyone can see me: free. I am notafraid to be naked, or of the sun anymore.The prayers are purged for poems aboutsex & life & bodies & bugs.Cicadas can shed. They are shrill about it.If I open my ears, I can almost hear it: a lesson.How to molt, step one: Be unattached toyour skin. Leave it when it needs to beleft.Step two: Make noise in any wayyou know how. Even if it unsettles thewhole neighborhood, kiss that girl, long &wet, right on the hot tar of the driveway.Step three: Confuse. Frighten & fascinate.Crawl up from the ground ready to fly.