4 Dec 2018 poem


Our church’s minister harvested all the congregation’s guilt
ground, mixed and baked it into a multitude
of uniform sized guilt wafers.
She placed the wafers upon our communion tongues
so no one individual had to digest too big a burden.

She also pooled all the congregation’s hope
and pressed it into the sanctified wine
and each of us, in turn, took a sip
of the viscous blood red liquid to wash down the guilt.

The non-traditional mixture
in the congregation’s belly
caused all of the celebrants
to regurgitate their sins
with the sounds of a thousand keys entering,
then turning a thousand locks,
with a thousand doors opening
and emptying their contents
into the communal discourse.

copyright © 2018 Kenneth P. Gurney


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