Responsibility (And Other Scary Monsters)

Morphine

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.