Prisms

— Mary Lou Taylor

She feels the burn of her son’s hand on her shoulder
long after he has gone. Cutting a marriage
to the quick, a clean-scissored severance.

He holds up his ring finger, empty
since that morning, a half-circle still pale
against the brown of his skin.

Her son has left the chair he pulled toward her,
dazzling facets of color, reflected off the crystal
on the table, pinned like a medal’s grosgrain stripes

to his lapel as he stands. A shining crown worn
on his head marks him as he leans toward her,
moving with him as he takes her hand in his.

After her son leaves, colors still splash against the ceiling,
glow in a violet green yellow red smear on the mantel.
Rainbows everywhere. Fitting to see rainbows.

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