Painstaking

Each of us maps out
our tragic sorrows
we retell over and over
then files a claim
with the local magistrate
as if inviting friends
to an outdoor picnic
to barbecue
a prizewinning memory
and consume it
like the holy host
only to see it reshape
its dragon form
in the brain’s storage bin
after a deep sleep.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

Fitting

Dora’s hands rub red
and purple sweet pea blossoms.
Oils scent her palms.
She places her hands to her face,
inhales deeply. Worry lines smooth.
She strokes her pillow case
and lies down for a nap,
fitting snuggly
into their heavenly scent.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

Acequia

The night tosses my sleep about the bed.
It pretzels my legs.
The sheets escape to a quiet place on the floor to slumber.

I murmur a thousand unintelligible untruths,
to be released from this nightly torment.
Ten years. Twenty years. Thirty years and more.

Along my spine is a map of linen folds.
In the air above my bed ten-thousand torn post-it notes
slip away from their messages.

Deep waters flood into the field adjacent to my open window.
The acequia gate opened by tricksters, drunks
or, more likely, old man Rodriguez for his blooming acres.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney