Clouds by January Pearson

The pulmonologist doesn’t know

what’s wrong with my father’s lungs. Filled

with clouds – the kind that hurry

toward you as a warning. He doesn’t know why

my father can’t catch his breath, why

water floods the small space

like rain in old shoes. He sighs for lack

of words. My father is propped

on his white hospital bed at a 90-degree angle,

the clean air around him untranslatable –

the way soft bunches of cumulus

seem tangible until you’re close

enough to touch them.

January Pearson’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry South, Tahoma Literary Review, 2River, Rust + Moth, Notre Dame Review and other publications. She was named a finalist in The Best of the Net 2020 Anthology.

18 April 2022