On Turning Ten
by Kenneth P. Gurney

After the candles went out with one mighty breath,
I expected my parents to award me tenure
on this body of mine, some certificate,
something official, a little pomp and circumstance,
but all I received was a new baseball glove
and a tummy ache from eating too much
cake and ice cream.

by Kenneth P. Gurney

The oblivious redhead girl
who smiled at the wooden Jesus
upon the cross, behind the alter,
cost herself the adoration
in a book of verse
written on Gabriel's halo
in the moment
he graced our presence
playing a song of Miles'
in the spacious cathedral
that smelled just like chocolate
where all the stain glass faded
for a split second half-life
to let the pure light
of heaven inside,
completely undistorted
by the stories of saints
and their accompanying

Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. His work appears mostly on the web as he spends SASE and reading fee money on flowers for his lover.  For more information about Kenneth, visit www.kpgurney.me.

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