Molting Season

Her face popped loose except under the chin.
She tugged at it with pink padless fingers
But the old chin was connected to new
By a hinge and not a perforation.

She hated molting season, and loved it
The birds, the burning, the clean fresh facade.
She smoothed her façade back over her face
And fastened it up with her pink hair band.

Some place for this to happen! In public
Out where your subcutaneous should never show.
Tears fell and caught in her reticulum
Stored below the surface like emotions.

She turned her face toward home, toward alone
Picking her way between old and new faces
Trying to avoid the faces she knew
That knew the face she showed to the world.

Knowing everyone else was molting too
Did not help her feel like they were birds of a feather.
The flocks picking at the fallen façades
Had unity of purpose and desire.

She wished she could shed from the inside
Where blemishes were older than a year.
The ravens were welcome to the façade
For the soul she needed a pelican.