My moss-laden tongue
confirms my muleheaded silence.
We share porch-swing condolences.
We share a pot of licorice tea.
Dora crafts mud figurines.
She rewrites formulaic principles.
She references Hawkeye in one-sided conversation.
We observe the exact instant the tide turns.
My careworn vocabulary lines up for roll call.
I love you survives a forlorn hope.
We view the next world’s separating membrane.
We swear mutual fealty.
Dora summons a sun-steeped red sky.
She performs Buffalo Nickel magic tricks.
We harvest heirloom stars for new wishes.
We store them in a sweetgrass basket.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
postscript
A forlorn hope is the first wave of an assault into the breach of a fortified position and usually sustained extremely high casualties if not get wiped out. I applied poetic license to this meaning.
