the privacy of wells

the recognition is exposition, eruption.
the temptation is too great to ignore.

three children playing in the back garden of a duplex on Cordon Avenue
face a well. a bucket. and a ladle.

in her reflection one sees, she claims, eight colours. the colours form a rainbow.
she is the rainbow, she says.

the boy by her side, her brother, elbows her.

their friend looks at the girl’s reflection and confirms.
she is the rainbow. and he is the cloud.

her brother grunts, tells his sister and the boy “you’re grossing me out”.
he leaves. disgusted.

as he leaves, his sister and the boy drop pennies into the well.
he shakes his head. rainbows, gross.

the girl tells the boy, as if no one had ever said it before,
“every cloud has a silver lining”

he replies, “at the end of every rainbow is a pot of gold.”

they giggle, kiss, and hold hands. each staring at the other’s reflection in the well.