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Inheritance By Kenneth P. Gurney

Inheritance You have pierced your body into a pair of faded blue jeans and pieced out your affection into breadcrumbs scattered over a trail of one night stands all the way from wherever your are back to here. You once called the highway that big, fat, black ribbon of regret, but it echoes more of your footsteps than the floorboards of this house grown old— this house that once knew so well your knees and your palm prints. The peach orchard wind blows its blossoms under the porch swing and twirls them in that nook where your teddy bear once slept out all night. I think of you more often than you wish. I think of you so often I dusted off my wings that lay in the attic for all the years I knew your mother.

Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM, USA with his beloved Dianne. He edits the anthology Adobe Walls which contains the poetry of New Mexico. His latest book is This is not Black & White.

Crack the Spine - Issue 16  

Literary Magazine

Crack the Spine - Issue 16  

Literary Magazine

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