Soak under scalding water, molting swirls of
too-tight skin—an apple, peeled. Showerhead washes away sin—
                    my own private baptism.

Flesh, solid as born-instilled sin,
          gives way to wet, soft as clay, dust-to-dust.
                    I still carry the weight of everything I was told to be.

Press pruney fingers to slick walls, pray for transformation.
          Ache builds, cry out to God,
                    desperate for the grace of letting go.

Wonder if this softening is sin or salvation.
          Scales fall away, revealing tender flesh beneath,
                    all that was heavy dissolved to completion.

A clever gardener welcomes snakes,
while a fool startles and is bit. And okay, I’m a sinner,
          but god never burdened the angels with being girls or boys.

          It is not sacrilege to reside
                    in accordance with what is good.