molt

I stop; look back.
Hand over my eyes to block the
manic light,
and I see
salt pillars.

They glower, vaguely
outlined with my own face.
I’ve peeled their chalky skins for years.

And I try
not to catch their eyes –
Midas, Medusa,
basilisk, Balor.

It’s a fix.
I’m ripped off and stacked up and left here.
A new me moves forward,
and I’m frozen in the reflection.

What will she be 

after the last peel;
just salt?

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