Rafael’s Question, by Carla Drysdale

My son carries the name
of the healing archangel. He

sits on my lap, at the computer’s
luminous screen. We look at photos

of my parents, divorced
when I was two. Their faces

sagging, eyes hopeful.
Still alive, but their visits to us

number less than a handful
in his five-year-old life.

Sometimes, after brushing our teeth
he’ll say, “Mom, make it like a river.”

And I’ll cup my palms together
under running water, and he’ll drink.

Tonight as we sit together
I’m silent, because it’s hard to explain.

He asks,” “Do you still love them?”
So gently, so gently.

Carla Drysdale, from Inheritance, published by Finishing Line Press. Republished with permission of the poet.

Photo credit: Daniel Padua via Flickr, Creative Commons License 2.0.

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