by Helen Zhou

You shed onto me; you
Moulted yesterday, you
Moulted today, and you’re going to moult
Tomorrow —
Dandruff, hair, sly bits of spittle and

Thin carrot slices of your time shed too onto
And now what you hold in your
Hand is a rubbery old
Stump of shrivelled root
With no flavour.
Shed me bottles of black colouring from
Your hair, and it’s now grey turning

Shed shed shed, onto me, you did,
Till now you’re a
Vulnerable, stark naked dry kernel
Surviving on the bare minimum
Of living essence.
And I rub my chin and
Why you shed yourself onto nowhere else
But here,
Onto me.