By Paulette Guerin
Gray skies spread above us like lace
on a communion tray.
Inside, they fed my father
through tubes clear with morphine
or red with blood. Fluorescent lights
bounced off slick walls and cheap art.
We passed Labor & Delivery, a lullaby playing
for each birth, then took the elevator up.
Machines beeped him in and out of sleep.
Lungs stuffed with late spring,
we paced the oval walkway,
an iron cross branding the horizon.
Paulette Guerin is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Florida. She lives in Arkansas and teaches writing, literature, and film. Her poetry has appeared in Best New Poets, ep;phany, Contemporary Verse 2, and others. Wading Through Lethe is her first full-length poetry collection. She also has a chapbook, Polishing Silver.