13 Dec 2018 poem


Dora collects curses
other people throw upon the land
and in each others’ faces.

It is as simple as cleaning
smudges off of eye glasses
or donut powder off of bluejeans.

Like fingerprints, she lifts curses off of guns
to the consternation of bereaved parents
and gives them to the crows to carry off.

No matter their size, the curses
weigh the same as a broken heart.

Dora and the crows
bring the curses on the other wind
to a yard with a cistern that collects tears.

Water from this reservoir fills an old washboard tub.
Each curse’s smudged words are scrubbed
and dried on a line, fluttering under the sun.

Once folded and pressed, they fill a basket
and are ready to be carried back,
to be cast upon open minds to sprout.

copyright © 2018 Kenneth P. Gurney



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