Mother-shell, sister sepulchers, and all
our hollow darlings:

only one of us will be solid,
and she’s small, easily lost.

Skin is something to be shared;
hermit crabs, we line up tidily

as ours begins to pinch and pass them down,
larger to smaller, until everyone has something

that comes close to fit—mine, like yours,
was never mine to begin with.

We transform our bodies into someone else’s
home, carried, disguised, by hooped skirts,

satin, and petticoat lace. Sister,
when you go I promise to wear you.