House And Home

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

Home

You lie on the sun warmed floor.
A concrete slab.

Your diaphragm rises and falls
with each full breath

and lifts the kitten
curled upon your belly.

You drift upward on the thermals
as your body rests.

The thermals circulate
through the entire house.

Your spirit enters my studio window
and rearranges charcoal

already set to the toothy paper
at the easel.

You give the page magpies
stroked by sunlit fingers.

You give tremors to my spine
when you open me up.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Where You Are

We seek each other out.
We are not hard to find.
You in your studio.
Me in my poetarium.

We speak something akin to religion.
We speak something to raise our spirits.
Our incantation of togetherness.
I love you.

The words paper the walls
of every room in the house.
They dot the backyard
like birds pecking the seed we spread.

I did not give up
on the search for home,
but accepted I found it
where you are.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney