prose poem about skin with internal rhyme

In Skin
The skin I’m in is thin. Veins of red and blue reign through. Freckles heckle purity. Nails take in so much dirt, I don’t know why. I wail; I cry. The spire of this is amiss but for this. What I have, I have. I shave, I clip, I cleanse, I comb. The skin over leg and lip, the hurts I cut on the earth I roam. But this, this, is always home.
C L Couch

clcouch123

I prefer Christopher in conversation. In writing, I use C L Couch because it’s a genderless form of my name and, frankly, easier—I have severe writer’s cramp. I mean to be a poet writing spiritual and occasional verse. The photographs used permanently here—for the banner, for my profile—were taken by Debra Danielson, a photographer and friend. You may enjoy more of her work at debra.danielson.org. If you would credit me when quoting my work, I'd be thankful. As I am thankful for your presence here.

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