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Peeling 
Stephanie Powell 
When I peel the seed from the grass stalk there’s me
calling back to boredom and a childhood of years of
days waiting for something better to do but it’s impossible
to put a name to the feeling when I peel the husk from a 
fingernail I am declawing myself making it less dangerous
for others to come near my hands when I peel off a 
slice of paint from the wall I only want to rest a cheek
against the part that I have exposed so I can check to see
if it has a pulse when I peel an orange there is no 
magic only the arrowhead of citrus stabbing my nose 
when I peel off the back of an envelope I start off trying 
to do it carefully but still it has the injury of a 
ripped tongue and I will not be able to re-stick it 
without someone noticing when I peel off my trousers I 
am hoping you may find my thighs appealing and 
not notice the dams of cellulite or the squashy way they 
sit together at the top when I peel back things I am always
hoping to find things underneath not nothing not nothing