There Are Multiple Photos of Hermit Crabs with Doll Heads for Shells

I hold the world with gloves of Elmer’s glue.
When dried, it makes things smooth enough to touch.
At night you peel it off of me in flakes
revealing patch by patch my newborn skin,
a wrinkled mammal squealing desire’s
most basic alphabet. And this is how
I sound to you, without the extra noise
of loose threads cluttering my seams. You trace
my name along the junctions of my nerves;
the accent makes it yours, a trapdoor name
I fall into, relieved to be offstage.
You hold me in the dark. The buzz of steps
above us tunnels in my fingertips.
The world you put inside me lifts its nose,
begins to clean its face with tongue-soaked paws.
Across my palms, my open lifelines itch.

Allie Kerper