Open Curtain

by Jari Thymian

2:30 a.m.
bedside vigil
my father’s former self
asks for rhubarb pie
ala mode

my father and I
escape the hospital wing
car windows open
white pelicans
dive for fish

I spill
his glass of water
on the bedsheets
he sings to me
You are my sunshine

hospital dawn
while he sleeps
three young bucks
under apple blossoms
pink rain

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Filed under Issue 5: The Far East, Poetry

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