Each evening she slips out of herself
shedding her second skin.
She peels the fur from her flesh
combs and smooths it patiently
until it lies soft and luminous
like a sleeping angel whose scent soothes the air.
The pointed teeth, stained with traces of blood,
she removes without a tremor—
one, then the other—
like crystal earrings set aside after a fine supper.
Then she tears away her tail and buries it
in the darkness of the earth,
which loosens into a sky of soil
she tunnels through and claws apart.
And the hands—what about the hands?
The claws, rather,
knotted with dirt and dead roots;
she slides them from her palms
as easily as satin gloves.
She strips away everything that is not truly hers
before surrendering to sleep.
Everything except the eyes of an ancient, ravenous beast
from which, even in dreams
there spills a clear, innocent light.