Sleeping Without Clothes

And now, nearing my sixth decade, 
finally I can live inside my skin 

after I've shed 
its coverings— peeled off 

childhood's white cotton socks  
embroidered with a yellow residue

of scabs; folded sleeves that kept
the bruises hidden. The lifting of sheets,

no longer a violation. A skirt 
hem without aftershock or tremor.

Let me sleep with one hand 
under the pillow and the other

open to what might stream 
from a window. Without drowning.

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