My body battered by my mind
trembles in place.
My blood hollows itself
blueing under oxygen debt.
Knights joust upon my tongue.
A soggy pink field torn to pieces by mad charges.
Love is a word I do not speak to myself.
It is an abstract others speak of solidly.
It has something to do with the difference
of the words House and Home.
My body houses what God’s mouth
breathed into me.
But this flesh does not feel like home
for all my consumed communion wafers.
In this state I tell myself
this night I feel the holy dark about me
and the floor’s broken glass is fear
not a bottle dropped
after liquid numbness fails
to add color back to old photos.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney