Your head was dressed in purple cloth,
the gladioli gazed on defeated at the window
as a nurse told us your heart was no longer stoic.
I thought perhaps it was from all the hurt put in it,
in the seventies, when your husband drank too much.
Sometimes it seems to me, what remains is suffered
silently on the curve where the sun always sets.
Under your own fluorescent gaze, escaped from view
the atlas of blood beneath your skin
marked the hours we would wait
for doctors to come in for another shift
as the gladioli gazed on impassionately in defeat.

© 2017 The Wasted Love Song
Image: Gladiolus by Judy Dean / CC BY


11 thoughts on “Gladioli

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