Iridescence


 
Iridescence
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You are not to blame. We separate.
We jump in the river, flailing, sink along
the slippery shore. Angels come too late.
Iridescence decorates the wrong
sky. I close my eyes against the sting
of antiseptic. Plastic tubing smells
forever. We pretend that everything
will be all right. His brother gathers shells
as though the sound of water matters. I
cry when no one knows. My darling son,
can you see the rainbows in the sky?
Perhaps. I know the morphine has not run
its course. The river beckons. I will keep
your dreams safe, my little boy. Just sleep.
 
 

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Comments
One Response to “Iridescence”
  1. Reblogged this on The Daily 400 and commented:
    Part seven of “Cloud Studies,” a sonnet sequence, by Christine Klocek-Lim.

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