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