We were talking over coffee in a cafe.
We managed not to interrupt each other.
As the sky darkened behind Dora,
I noticed the halo about her head.
At first I thought it was a trick of the light.
Or my eyes gone misty.
When I reached forward to adjust Dora’s hair,
my fingers brightened perceptively.
The sharp withdrawal of my hand
prompted Dora’s queried gaze.
I reached out again, flicked a finger from thumb
to tap the halo like a cymbal.
A bass strum emanated from the halo
to rebound off the cafe’s walls.
Dora claimed she is no saint, no goddess.
She first noticed the halo in the mirror
the morning after she determined to own
all her actions, all her emotions,
all her consequences and the repercussions.
She confessed shortly thereafter
that she read superhero comics
and graphic novels,
but found no correlations.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney