Sunday Iridescence
I see the abusive boyfriend’s allegations barrel
like silver bullets toward her heart, and the grandfather’s
final words that fall like faded leaves from his colorless lips
while his children hurry to the bedside to gather them before
they drift to the floor and scatter beneath the nightstand.
I often wonder whether this uncommon sense
is a boon or a curse. Pain has a new face and the colors
that besiege me hold a new meaning. Harsh black spikes
surround words of hatred; red bubbles boil around angry
accusations, and green slime drips from the subversive
vowels of lies. But when I reach the church,
I know no such torment.
A gleaming billow emerges as the organ commences.
Hues reflective of stain glass radiance engulf me as voices
join in and colors start to dance. Brilliant blue shapes jive to
challenge the cloudless sky; yellow waves glaze the air
like apricot jam on morning toast, and lustrous orange
accompanies the blazing sunrise over distant hills. This
Sunday iridescence paints grace among the madness.
Mary Claire Sullivan