Poetry,  Published Submissions

choices, choices, choices, choices

I have found every corner & 
it leaves your skin. 
To each room you peeled a layer, 
your birthmark lays 
against the furnace. 
Your ripped ear stills at 
oven timers 
& you lay your nose on the counter.

Your voice 
sits on blue, veined counters. 
Here, is your hand
& here, is your future
You point at the same one. 
ambulate around the bar, 
left side, hand
Right side, future

Your lips part 
like a gaping hole of 
misinformation 
of tumbleweeds directing against 
wind. An unorthodox sight sounds like your voice. 
Right or left you say. 
To which 
your bones pipe up 
below my feet. 
& it is just you 
divesting from your skin. 
Haunted, those say. 
Pronounced, my mother. 

— Capra McCormick