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
CMcCormick