A sheet of white linen
interloped by two eclipsing moons. My uncle and grandfather
are huddled and hiding their horrified hyphens
with their stoic mannerisms—little coughs and sniffs. It’s awkward
how I see my father’s bed sheets as a sky blue
in the muddled gray of the hospital bedroom.
He’s staring at the clearly cloudy painting of a beach, my father,
and I ask him if he’s alright.
He tells me how much he hurts
but how much he loves the clearly cloudy painting of a beach
with a moving sailboat.
I check the painting to see when—
“See it’ll go out and come back in again,”
My father wheezes—the IV is still attached to his arm:
“The nurses gave me one of those moving paintings.”
“That’s nice, Dad,” I say.
My uncle and grandfather grimace
a laugh at what happened.
I stifle a yawn so as not to laugh aloud—
or cry in remorse—
over the clearly cloudy picture of a beach,
devoid of any living sailboat.
The halo-fluorescent light turns on—alighting—
and my father’s sleepy eyes
are shut.